


I Wake in Vain: Letters to Kabul

by rpblcofletters, SaintMalone



Category: The New Pope, The Young Pope (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Coney Island, M/M, Slow Burn, Yearning, bad german wine, mongoose - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 29,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26087467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rpblcofletters/pseuds/rpblcofletters, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintMalone/pseuds/SaintMalone
Summary: Following the events of The Young Pope and The New Pope, a series of letters is exchanged between Cardinals Mario Assente in Kabul, and Bernardo Gutiérrez, in Rome and later New York.  Seeking some sort of consolation for their loneliness and sorrow, they find companionship in each other.
Relationships: Mario Assente/Bernardo Gutiérrez
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This tome, this epoch, this journey of many letters was a labor of love - not only between rpblcofletters and I - but between the most extraordinary and passionate individuals who we have met through the TYP/TNP fandom. What turned into a passing joke on our silly little discord became a welcome distraction, a massive creative outlet, and memorial to the world's worst summer. 
> 
> While not every detail is perfect (forgive us,) we hope you enjoy all the same. - Saint Malone
> 
> ~~
> 
> I second everything Saint Malone says: writing these has been an absolute pleasure and I hope that you enjoy reading them as much as we did writing them. There's nothing that brings you closer to characters and their world than something like this: I hope what I made of Gutierrez and St. Malone of Assente matches what others imagine. We certainly indulged in poetry and metaphor - escapism for us just as these letters would be for their purposed writers - but how else to pass the time, when left alone upon the desert sands? - rpblcofletters

Dear Bernardo, 

I hope this letter finds you well. Today, I watched as the military men struggled through “Sand Bootcamp,” in which the sergeant made all the young soldiers carry 23 kilogram bags of sand through an obstacle course. They seem like nice, capable men. I watch them from my window in the embassy, which has poor ventilation. Have you ever seen a mongoose before? I had not.

Yours in misery,  
Mario


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Eminence,

No, I have never seen a mongoose. When I looked them up I expected them to be more related to geese than a mammal. The swallows here in Rome cry in the morning and it reminds me of you.

Enclosed please find a set of rosary beads that I found while strolling in the gardens. Please keep them as a memento of me, and perhaps in your next letter, include some of the sand of the infinite desert, on which the mongeese travail.

Yours forever,  
Bernardo


	3. Chapter 3

Dearest Bernardo,

Ah, a shame that you have not seen a mongoose before. They are quite industrious, even in this harsh desert climate. They remind me of Voiello, as they are rat-like, and everywhere.

Thank you for the beads. They are lovely and very smooth. In return, I have enclosed some sand from outside the embassy. They don’t let us leave the grounds unattended. My chaperone is named Muhammad. He doesn’t remind me of you at all.

Dearly,  
Mario


	4. Chapter 4

Dear Eminence,

The sand from your letter spilled all over my desk in the Apostolic Palace, and will surely bother the nuns who come to vacuum every so often. Surely, however, they are not nearly as well-informed on how to remove sand from carpets and desks as you are now. Do you have any tips? though I ask this question as if happening across a bit of sand does not cause me a bit of nostalgia on thinking of you.

Tell me more about your chaperone, Muhammad. From your brief description, I imagine him as quite tall, thin, dark-skinned, temperate in drinking but not of mind, and emotionless. Not unlike, I realize, the impression you once gave me, before we came to know each other better. It must be dreadful to sit with someone so similar in the poorly-ventilated embassy. Have you learned any Farsi? Or visited any of the mosques? If you cross your fingers behind your back, perhaps the Lord will not mind. The photos I have seen online remind me vaguely of Granada, which I visited once as a boy with my mother. Have you ever been to Granada? When you return, we should go. From there hails a lovely poet by the name of Garcia Lorca. I sometimes read his poetry and think of you:

_Never let me lose the marvel  
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent  
the solitary rose of your breath  
places on my cheek at night._

Yours forever,  
Bernardo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given the little information we have about Bernardo, namely is implied origins in Spain and his poetic calling as described to Pius XIII in Episode II of The Young Pope, I've come up with a background for him that is revealed slowly. This is the first hint of it: he obviously must know and love Lorca. - rpblcofletters


	5. Chapter 5

My Dearest,

Yes, the sand does indeed get everywhere, even in places you don’t expect to find it. It’s cumbersome. 

Muhammad is tall, with a beard. He is broad shouldered. He carries a rifle, which is painted in three shades of beige. He has mentioned a son before, but I have not inquired further. His presence is somehow comforting. He reminds me of someone, yet I cannot quite place it.  
I attend Farsi classes on embassy grounds, the language is ancient and exotic. Sometimes I visit the “ کافه”, or cafe. 

Granada sounds pleasant. Perhaps I will go sometime. I do miss the sea.

Lovingly,  
Mario


	6. Chapter 6

Dear Mario,

I both can and cannot imagine how a broad-shouldered man with a rifle is comforting to you. I often feel the same way around the Swiss Guards, though their incredible formality, much like everything else here, is what provides the greatest sense of security (though I do not doubt their abilities elsewhere). Does Muhammad accompany you to the cafe? What do you eat there? I had not lately been to a cafe, but since reading your letter, I have had an odd craving to leave from the walls of the Vatican - not something I do often - and I ventured to find one. I happened upon a small place on the corner of via Vitelleschi known as Dea Benedetta, and sat for a cappuccino as I watched the early morning commuters running about. On my way back, I happened across a tourist shop selling stationary, and bought a set of wax and a seal - the only option aside from this duck were various l letters of the alphabet, though B and G and even M were missing. Besides, it recalled to me the mongoose.

When we go to Granada, I will take you to a cafe for churros y chocolate. It is a specialty.

Always yours,  
Bernardo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The envelope is closed with a seal - quite messed up, though an attempt was made.


	7. Chapter 7

Treasured Bernardo,

As the midsummer heat sets in, I find myself feeling ill. While the facilities are adequate here, the stifling heat makes my duties difficult. Recently, I was called to a site of battle, where I administered a young man his last rites. I was accompanied by Muhammad, of course, and I did not fear for my safety. In spite of this, I tire of the vastness of the desert, the distant sounds of gunfire and strife. 

When I returned to the embassy, I found that one of the nuns had left my bedroom in a state of disarray, and there were traces of sand on my carpet. I do not find this acceptable. 

When I go to the cafe, Muhammad waits outside and chews tobacco. It is common here to see men smacking their lips, picking the black tar bits from their teeth. I prefer the “Mond” brand cigarettes sold locally, though I have received dubious looks from the tobacco shop owner when I request them. 

The coffee here is deeply colored and strong, but I rarely eat at the cafe. I have not yet acclimated to the cuisine here, as the native fruits and vegetables are quite different than what I have grown comfortable with. I spend many meals reviewing literature, rather than conversing with others.

Wax seals are very antiquated, but I appreciate your effort. They supply us with embassy branded stationary, but I am not particularly fond of it. Therefore, I usually use what I have on hand. 

A mongoose has just attempted to enter my window, as I must leave them open to quell the heat. He appears to be interested in some crumbs left by the careless nuns.

Yours always,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see the moment when the depression starts to set in. - Saint Malone


	8. Chapter 8

Dear Mario,

While I am loath that the heat causes you discomfort, I recall once when I complained about the oppressive heat in Rome you told me not to drink cold water or stay too long in the air-con lest I find myself with colpo d'aria. So perhaps if you keep that in your thoughts you can hope the hot, dry air does you good - better than the hot, humid air here. At least you have the stray mongoose to keep you company. I am dreadfully lonely here.

I have recently been watching Italian films to try and improve upon my fluency in the language (English will only get me so far with the Holy Father now) and the other night I watched _La dolce vita_ , which I am amazed I had never seen before. I sometimes catch myself fancying another midnight stroll, this time to the Trevi Fountain, though I doubt the authorities would be pleased to find a Cardinal submerged in the tourist-thronged waters in an attempt at relieving the heat. How did Anita Ekberg and Marcello Mastroianni find it empty, even in the 60s, before Americans discovered the Eternal City? Perhaps I can make do with the fountains here in our gardens, with only odd glances from the nuns. Have you ever seen this film? And do you have many fountains in Kabul? I doubt your Muhammad would not be pleased to find you frolicking in them: I know you know better, but do _not_ try it. I could not manage if some tragedy (political or otherwise) were to occur.

A shame that the nuns left your room so poorly. We can hope that they were too distracted in their contemplations and prayer to make it up properly, though I'm sure you've already spoken to them or their superior. Does your military friend have any sway over the goings-on within the embassy, or only outside? Does he intimidate the tobacconists for you?

I suppose you must like the dark coffee. Is it much like espresso? You know I prefer tea - do they have any particular types or traditions there, as they do in Turkey?

Always your Bernardo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bernardo is most certainly a romantic. - rpblcofletters


	9. Chapter 9

Beloved Bernardo,

Do you know how quiet the desert can be at night, when no guns ablaze, no soldiers marching through the streets? On nights like these, the moon shines on the brutalist concrete pillars of the embassy, turning the stones white. It can almost be beautiful, tranquil, when everyone is asleep. I encourage you to walk under the moonlight, it has a calming effect. I find the solitude invigorating.

There are a few sparse fountains, mostly for show. In the hot summer, there is little point to leaving them on during the day, as temperatures can soar above 40C. They would simply attract unwanted desert wildlife. 

I have not seen that particular film in many years. The media offerings here are paltry, but perhaps I can manage to find a copy of it, to revisit. The security administrators often keep a small black and white television at their desk, where they watch football matches. Although popular with the youth and older men, football here does not drive the swarms of madness that the Napoli team does back home. I do not understand football.

On a walk to the cafe the other morning, Muhammad confided that one of his sons had perished in a terrorist attack. He showed me a picture of him, gently cradling the phone while he recalled his son’s fondness for reading. He wanted to be a doctor, so he could help others who have suffered under the regime. I am not fond of children, but I prayed for him anyway.

Contemplating these details in silence on the walk to our cafe, Muhammad was suddenly called to inspect a skirmish that occurred near the embassy. Perhaps because of the intimate nature of our talk, he allowed me to proceed to the cafe on my own while he went to inspect the trouble.

I went about my morning, sipping my dark coffee and watching the old men smoke shisha. While I am used to Muhammad chewing and spitting tobacco outside while I contemplate the day’s sermons, I found myself missing his presence. Although fully clothed, I felt a certain nakedness, a vulnerability. Without the comfort of familiarity, without the security of the embassy walls, I suppose you could say I feel lonely as well. 

Yours always,  
Mario


	10. Chapter 10

Dearest Mario,

I cannot imagine the quiet of the moonlit streets, their eerie silence after the daytime bombardment. It must be terribly frightening during the day, and perhaps even more so at night. I used to fear the streets of Rome, haunted by the thought that I might be attacked or hit by a motorbike while crossing the street (a reasonable fear, I have learned, and not an irrational one), but I worry that the fears you must have are much more legitimate. Do you fear for your safety? I suppose Muhammad must provide some sense of security. I will go for a walk tonight beneath the moon and think of you: it will be the same moon and stars above our heads.

I am horrified to hear about your friend’s son. I will keep them both in my prayers. You write of him with such affection. It must be difficult to be so far from what you know; I too would be glad to find company in even someone so distant as a soldier, made inhuman by the strictly military nature of his position. Yet it seems you have charmed him, even if he reveals only his tragedies and not his happinesses to you.

I have neither tragedies nor happinesses - receiving your letters is one of my few pleasures. Despite the familiarity I have with His Holiness and the other members of the Curia, there is no intimacy. I spend my days alone, attempting to busy myself with work.

His Holiness mentioned in passing that he may send me to New York because I am apparently the most familiar with it. It has been years and still they have not found a replacement for Kurtwell. I fear it will send me into some sort of wistful depression. I could not bear that. Besides, despite the _diplomatic_ nature of our correspondence, I fear that our letters could be intercepted, with a postmark from Afghanistan. This would only worsen my loneliness. I would rather he send me to Kabul than Manhattan. At least then we could suffer together.

Write soon. Ever yours, etc.  
Bernardo

P.S. I did go for a walk tonight, but the clouds obscured the moon. I will try again tomorrow.


	11. Chapter 11

Beloved Bernardo,

August night, at dusk: is there ever such a complex feeling, the feeling of wanting to wander in the desert forever? I think of St. John the Baptist, who made the desert of Judea his home, emerging as a prophet from its unforgiving landscape. I sometimes wonder what it would be like, to walk past the embassy walls, walk into the desert, and never to be seen again.

New York...ah. I visited once, many years ago, with other students of dance. We marveled at the tall buildings, as many naive Italian boys do, and watched the men in suits rush from one street to another, briefcase in hand. I found myself in a small cemetery in the “financial district,” a quiet solace nestled between skyscrapers. I read a pamphlet that mentioned some of the graves in this cemetery were the oldest in the city, now ruins. Funny, the oldest date of death I noticed was 1681. A blink of the eye to a Roman ruin, a whisper to the Basilica. 

No, I am not afraid here. Gunfire, shouts, and desert winds are common, but are distant from the embassy. Sometimes I am not even aware a skirmish has occurred until I hear the administrator’s television news blaring from the lobby. 

Muhammad has not mentioned his son since the day he allowed me to walk to the cafe on my own. Yet, he has not allowed me a solitary walk since. He chews his tobacco in silence, and I smoke as I walk. He is shorter than I am, and despite his training, sometimes he must take long strides to catch up. His rifle appears to add quite a bit of weight. I cannot say that I’ve charmed him, as I have only done what I am assigned to. His happiness is not my concern, but my stewardship to the greater faith is. 

I would be filled with regret if we were not able to correspond any further. Mongeese are terrible company, and the desert sand does not answer me back. 

Most faithfully,   
Mario 

P.S., I hope the clouds have cleared from your moonlit walk.


	12. Chapter 12

Dearest Mario,

If I were to see you walking alone into the desert, standing there beneath the August sun, flocked by mongeese (or is it mongooses?), like John the Baptist, I surely would think you were a mirage, or a heaven-sent vision. Is Kabul far enough south for you to wear the white cassock instead of black? I confess, it would be odd to see you in white. Black is a fine color for you, as it is for myself.

Speaking of cassocks, I had to venture out into the city again to purchase a new cassock today, because one of my others has become so terribly worn after years of constant wear (and perhaps a catch on a door) that the pellegrina is splitting from the body and neither I, with my paltry tailoring skills, nor the nuns from Sta. Teresa thought it worth fixing. I will have to return for another fitting. The tailor is a man who, although our age difference cannot be more than ten years, seems a century older than me. He must have made cassocks for the cardinals who elected Pius XI or XII, as well as XIII. Much to my surprise, however, he had an apprentice - a young man perhaps not yet in his 20s. A nephew, he told me, though I did not see the resemblance. The poor boy looked dreadfully bored as he took down the measurements his uncle called out. I resented this for him. When I was his age, I knew I wanted nothing for myself besides serving the Lord; I cannot imagine the tedium he faces, forced into a profession simply because it is his uncle’s. I would dreaded to be a cook, as my father was, or a domestic servant, as my mother. Instead I am a holy servant.

I keep Muhammad and his son in my prayers, as well as you. You may not fear, but I do. I see the news as well, and cannot help but worry. I seem to be the only one who will admit it. He would not have sent you there, they say, if it wasn’t safe. I do not know how to respond to this. It does not soothe me. I will continue to pray for your safety and swift return, whenever His Holiness allows it. 

I will be going to New York in a month. Surely I will receive your next letter before then, but if not, I will have it forwarded. I dread my time there, though I equally dread my return, without you here to greet me. I will think of you. Last time I did not partake in the city’s offerings. His Holiness Pius XIII rarely spoke of the sleepless city where he once lived, but I recall he mentioned a beach at “Coney Island”, which is in Brooklyn. Perhaps I will take a trip there and stand at the water’s edge, looking across the sea to Africa and you; or stand upon the sand and imagine I am accompanied by you and your mongeese, and Muhammad and the distance. I would rather we be alone. I want nothing but to be with you. 

Eternally yours  
Bernardo


	13. Chapter 13

Beloved,

The summer heat grows worse by the day. Sand accumulates in every corner, specks of it flanking the bottoms of my robes. I purchased a pair of linen pyjamas from a local textile worker, who wrapped the garments with care. Upon arriving home and removing them from their delicately wrapped paper, flecks of sand tumbled onto my floor. It is everywhere.

I am pleased to hear you have invested in a new cassock. You were always frugal with your clothing budget, and while some may consider this a virtue - I do not. God has intended for us, the finer things. If you had not purchased your precious new garment, would the apprentice not have been able to fill his uncle’s duties? I admire your compassion, dear Bernardo. Your frugality, your virtue, and your faith.

I recognize that His Holiness will only send me where He deems best. Despite the sand, the gunfire in the distance, the armed chaperone, the mongoose, and the superfluous fountains, there are moments of clarity. The modest chapel, while hideously outfitted in gaudy modern accouterments, seems to attract men with purpose and passion. Men like Muhammad, men who are strong and sure of themselves. And I will be there to give them solace when they need, as is my duty.

Tell me, beloved Bernardo, when the clouds clear from the moon: where do your hands wander at night? When the water at this “Coney Island” laps at your feet, who awaits you on the shore? 

As for me, nothing but sand.

Faithfully,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my (personal) favorite letter of the bunch. He's so exacting, isn't he?  
> \- Saint Malone


	14. Chapter 14

Dearest Mario, 

The heat here, too, has become unbearable. I almost wish for the dry heat instead of the humidity, which weighs so heavily on my shoulders. I went to pick up my new cassock today. Usually I would walk - it’s such a pleasant stroll from the Vatican to the Pantheon, if a bit crowded - but I opted for the bus, with the intention of escaping the heat. I should have known better. It was incredibly crowded, mainly of tourists. In the throng getting off at the stop where I was waiting, presumably to visit the basilica, I spotted a man who seemed about your height, and found myself calling out your name. Of course, it was not you. I should have known better. Even in the summer heat, you would never wear khakis and a Bruce Springsteen t-shirt. (I hope he was not intending to visit us at the Vatican ... surely he would not have been let in wearing such an outfit. All men deserve to see and feel the beauty of God and His creation).

In any case, the cassock fits splendidly, presumably thanks to the handiwork of our nephew-apprentice, who I have now learned is named Giacomo. While his uncle was fetching a box for me, I asked him whether he had always wanted to be a tailor, and he gave me a vague answer that did not satisfy my curiosity. I inquired no further. Sometimes we fail to provide answers not because we do not wish to, but because we know not how, or because the answer might upset us. I often wonder what might elicit such a silent response from me, or from you. Perhaps one day we might ask each other such a question. Alas, the response is not so clear on paper as in person. 

Describe to me this modern chapel. Do many come to hear mass? And do you administer the sacraments yourself? I have not had the occasion to in many years. Perhaps in New York, in one of their tasteless, modern churches. There even the older buildings have no soul.

I write now beneath the light of the moon - the sky is once again cloudless - which streams in through my window and onto my desk. The grain of the paper, though rough, is oddly comforting - as if it has been dusted with sand. 

I will have your next letter forwarded to me in New York. Until then, I cast a weather eye and wait for you upon the beach, forever and ever.  
Bernardo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote this letter, Nas said "he turned Assente’s scorn and made it LOVABLE". In my guise as Bernardo I didn't even read into Assente's derision, either of Bernardo or of the apprentice. Am I becoming my character, or have I been him all along? - rpblcofletters


	15. Chapter 15

Precious Bernardo,

By the time you receive this, I imagine you will be settling into the land of Coney Islands and skyscrapers. I am afraid you will not escape the crowds of tourists in the city of New York, but perhaps the precocious humidity of the Vatican can be eluded. Perhaps your neighborhood is on a quiet street - are there quiet streets, in “the city that never sleeps?”

Perhaps we are both banished to equally unsightly chapels, made of spackled concrete and lacquered wood. If I brush my finger across the gold filament of one of the artworks here in the chapel, metallic flecks of dust coagulate. It is as cheap and counterfeit as fool’s gold, only for show. I can only hope some of the adornments in your own chapel are more carefully attended to. Much of the services here are attended by foreigners to the land - missionaries, aides, those who desire peace. Occasionally, a soldier - far from home - will quietly wander in. I administer him the sacrament as I do any devotee, but I will never fully adjust to the sight of parishioners in military fatigues. Some weeks ago, a young soldier who had just returned from skirmish inquired about where to set his rifle during Mass. I had no answer for him, so I instructed him to hold it, as was the safest course of action.

I applaud Giacomo’s craftsmanship, and it is pleasing to hear that your new cassock fits well. Despite his vagueness, he sounds gifted in his craft. Sometimes our first passion in life is not the one the Lord chooses for us. Sometimes, we must have faith that a second choice is the one closest to Him.

Strangely, I gaze out my window tonight to find one of the fountains on - the sound of the water reminds me of home, of the beaches you are so fond of. It is a pleasant night, not uncomfortably warm, and I am wearing the linen pyjamas I mentioned previously. The airy nature of the fabric allows for the slightest breeze to penetrate my skin, which is a very welcome sensation in an endless, melancholic summer.

In your new New York home, can you hear the sound of the ocean, or is the night filled with sirens and the sounds of nightclubs and bars, a vast concrete desert of chattering and crowds? Do young, eager men bound down the sidewalk, awaiting their friends and lovers, smiling into the cloudless moonlight?

Sometimes, I glance outside my window at the embassy, in this endless summer, and see the shining eyes of a desert creature from across the yard - distant, dangerous, and alert. 

Devotionally  
Mario


	16. Chapter 16

Dearest Mario,

The last time I visited New York, I stayed in a boarding house in Queens, not far from a major train hub. Even on quiet days it was constantly busy – not with tourists, but with men and women running to catch their trains, to get to work, to fetch groceries, to pick up their children from school. It was incredibly human. But now I am staying with the the Holy See’s Permanent Observer to the United Nations, a friend of His Holiness - you may recall Monsignor Amatucci. It is a quaint limestone building only a block away from Central Park and very close to all the important museums. It is a private apartment, not an embassy (though I wish it were. We could at least, then, share the liminal nature of a space said to be the Vatican, though it is so incredibly removed). During the day it is quiet, though tourists often walk by with gift bags from the museums and admission stickers still stuck to their shirts, and wealthy women with miniature poodles strut down the streets in their heels. At night it is silent. It is fairly comfortable, but I do not expect to ever settle. I prefer the humanity of Queens. Perhaps I will go visit.

I, too, would not know how to respond to the question of where to put one’s rifle during mass. I suppose having him keep it on his person was the best option. What would happen if he had forgotten it in the pews, and you had come across it? Has such a thing happened? (Is this how bomb scares occur?) I could not bring myself to touch one: I would be too frightened, not so much of the weapon itself, but of the power it endows he who possesses it. Have you had occasion to hold one? Is there some implication that, seeing as you are here now, you must be assimilated the constant military nature? Do they see you as a priest, or as a man - and if as a man, as a soldier? The thought frightens me. I could never be a soldier.

There are some military men here, in the train stations, though not quite as many as in Italy; nor are they as disciplined as the Swiss Guards. It is odd to see such men (and women) chatting casually as they hold these large weapons, and the commuters and tourists stream past. Perhaps it is something that you have grown accustomed to, but I never will. The Swiss have such formality about themselves, which I deeply respect. I suppose _they_ are not much different than us priests. But as for these other soldiers who are meant for military action and not for ceremony, I could not say.

It is hot and humid in New York, but not as much as in Rome. There is no shade; the buildings and pavement bake in the sun; the cars honk and cough and subways and their rats squeak. I miss the holy warmth of Rome. There is holiness here, yes, but one must seek it out. It hides with the subway rats, among the packs of gum at a bodega, between the pages of a newspaper.

I cannot see the ocean, though I saw it from the plane. The thought that it is not far is comforting. If I go for a stroll in the park, I can see the ponds with their ducks and rowboats and think of it. But even the elegant reservoir has none of the mystery of the sea, no indication of the distance between us.

From my window, I see more windows: nothing more.  
I have not yet reached Coney Island. I will go soon.

Eternally,  
Bernardo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here begins my own indulgence: I miss Manhattan. Much of what I write through Bernardo's hand comes from personal experience, particularly because I've spent a lot of time around the Met and the Permanent Observer to the Holy See. - rpblcofletters


	17. Chapter 17

Dearest Bernardo,

As the sun descends on another day at the embassy, I watch as the sky turn shades of orange and pink, setting the desert mountains ablaze. The sand, the dust, the dry air - all are cumbersome reminders of earthly shortcomings - but the sunsets here are truly exquisite. The sky becomes golden, pure and breathtaking. If I gaze to the heavens at the right moment, I can sometimes forget how much I miss the halls of the Vatican. 

I have not seen the bothersome mongoose in some days. His absence reminds me of a vacationing tourist, taking the month of August off to enjoy the spoils of another region. Even the piece of toast I mistakenly left by the window sill, which would normally be gone by morning, remains untouched.

Your apartment sounds acceptable, and I hope Monsignor Amatucci provides adequate guidance so that you may settle in to your lodgings with little issue. I must ask - a small smile creeping across my face as I write this - did any of your “stuffed friends” accompany you to New York? Or does your bed lie empty at night?

I have become accustomed to the presence of weapons, as many men carry similar rifles to Muhammad’s. He offered to take me shooting once, but I politely declined. I suppose every young boy has daydreams of fatigues, a weapon strapped to his back, of defending his fellow soldiers during an enemy raid. I remember as a child, playing with plastic soldiers, my father muttering about the dangerous ideology of such toys. I did not know of what he meant back then, but as I see strong young men leave the embassy and return later with scrapes, burns, scabs, and missing limbs, I begin to understand.

Recently, I administered last rites to one of these poor men, a young boy with a rifle strapped to his shoulder. As he lay dying, I gazed into his eyes, deep and dark, and I found myself thinking of you. Although I felt the urge to embrace him, I did not.

How many oceans are there between us? Two? Three? Hundreds? I fear I may never see the ocean again, nor the hallways of the Vatican, nor the splendor of Rome. What I would not give, to be but a humble voyeur in your city that never sleeps.

With Faith and Devotion,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Songs of Faith and Devotion" being my favorite Depeche Mode album. Because, of course it is.   
> \- Saint Malone


	18. Chapter 18

Dearest Mario,  
The last time I visited New York, I stayed in a boarding house in Queens, not far from a major train hub. Even on quiet days it was constantly busy – not with tourists, but with men and women running to catch their trains, to get to work, to fetch groceries, to pick up their children from school. It was incredibly human. But now I am staying with the the Holy See’s Permanent Observer to the United Nations, a friend of His Holiness - you may recall Monsignor Amatucci. It is a quaint limestone building only a block away from Central Park and very close to all the important museums. It is a private apartment, not an embassy (though I wish it were. We could at least, then, share the liminal nature of a space said to be the Vatican, though it is so incredibly removed). During the day it is quiet, though tourists often walk by with gift bags from the museums and admission stickers still stuck to their shirts, and wealthy women with miniature poodles strut down the streets in their heels. At night it is silent. It is fairly comfortable, but I do not expect to ever settle. I prefer the humanity of Queens. Perhaps I will go visit.

I, too, would not know how to respond to the question of where to put one’s rifle during mass. I suppose having him keep it on his person was the best option. What would happen if he had forgotten it in the pews, and you had come across it? Has such a thing happened? (Is this how bomb scares occur?) I could not bring myself to touch one: I would be too frightened, not so much of the weapon itself, but of the power it endows he who possesses it. Have you had occasion to hold one? Is there some implication that, seeing as you are here now, you must be assimilated the constant military nature? Do they see you as a priest, or as a man - and if as a man, as a soldier? The thought frightens me. I could never be a soldier.

There are some military men here, in the train stations, though not quite as many as in Italy; nor are they as disciplined as the Swiss Guards. It is odd to see such men (and women) chatting casually as they hold these large weapons, and the commuters and tourists stream past. Perhaps it is something that you have grown accustomed to, but I never will. The Swiss have such formality about themselves, which I deeply respect. I suppose _they_ are not much different than us priests. But as for these other soldiers who are meant for military action and not for ceremony, I could not say.

It is hot and humid in New York, but not as much as in Rome. There is no shade; the buildings and pavement bake in the sun; the cars honk and cough and subways and their rats squeak. I miss the holy warmth of Rome. There is holiness here, yes, but one must seek it out. It hides with the subway rats, among the packs of gum at a bodega, between the pages of a newspaper.

I cannot see the ocean, though I saw it from the plane. The thought that it is not far is comforting. If I go for a stroll in the park, I can see the ponds with their ducks and rowboats and think of it. But even the elegant reservoir has none of the mystery of the sea, no indication of the distance between us.

From my window, I see more windows: nothing more.  
I have not yet reached Coney Island. I will go soon.

Eternally,  
Bernardo


	19. Chapter 19

Dearest Bernardo,

As the sun descends on another day at the embassy, I watch as the sky turn shades of orange and pink, setting the desert mountains ablaze. The sand, the dust, the dry air - all are cumbersome reminders of earthly shortcomings - but the sunsets here are truly exquisite. The sky becomes golden, pure and breathtaking. If I gaze to the heavens at the right moment, I can sometimes forget how much I miss the halls of the Vatican. 

I have not seen the bothersome mongoose in some days. His absence reminds me of a vacationing tourist, taking the month of August off to enjoy the spoils of another region. Even the piece of toast I mistakenly left by the window sill, which would normally be gone by morning, remains untouched.

Your apartment sounds acceptable, and I hope Monsignor Amatucci provides adequate guidance so that you may settle in to your lodgings with little issue. I must ask - a small smile creeping across my face as I write this - did any of your “stuffed friends” accompany you to New York? Or does your bed lie empty at night?

I have become accustomed to the presence of weapons, as many men carry similar rifles to Muhammad’s. He offered to take me shooting once, but I politely declined. I suppose every young boy has daydreams of fatigues, a weapon strapped to his back, of defending his fellow soldiers during an enemy raid. I remember as a child, playing with plastic soldiers, my father muttering about the dangerous ideology of such toys. I did not know of what he meant back then, but as I see strong young men leave the embassy and return later with scrapes, burns, scabs, and missing limbs, I begin to understand.

Recently, I administered last rites to one of these poor men, a young boy with a rifle strapped to his shoulder. As he lay dying, I gazed into his eyes, deep and dark, and I found myself thinking of you. Although I felt the urge to embrace him, I did not.

How many oceans are there between us? Two? Three? Hundreds? I fear I may never see the ocean again, nor the hallways of the Vatican, nor the splendor of Rome. What I would not give, to be but a humble voyeur in your city that never sleeps.

With Faith and Devotion,  
Mario


	20. Chapter 20

My dearest Mario,

You wrote in your last letter of the sunset over the desert. I cannot imagine something so beautiful, and wish I were there to see it at your side. Here there are often fantastic sunsets as well, which mark the sky with streaks of red and gold as the sun sinks behind the buildings. But the horizon is impossible to see: there is always something taller in the distance, blocking it. I have heard (but never seen myself) that when the sun falls just out of view, a green flash will come from it - a rare sight, and good luck. If I could see past the buildings, towards the horizon, I would look for this flash, and ascribe to it some meaning - a prayer answered or a blessing. Or perhaps I would see it much as the green light on the end of the dock across the bay in that American novel “Gatsby” which I have lately read - a memory of something unreachable, impossible, if only just out of grasp. I recommend this book to you. It is both tragic in the vanity of its characters and terribly romantic in this very same vanity.

While lost rights are a most beautiful sacrament and one that all faithful deserve the comfort of, it is horrifying to read of the ordeal that this young man and so many others must have gone through to necessitate it. I suppose he was blessed to have received it at all, and to have had such a capable priest - a cardinal no less - administering it. And you, too, must be struck with horror, to see so many - young, old, men, women - suffering. I could not bear it. Even the suffering in this city is horrid. In the walls of the Vatican, we see little of such terrible things. We have only beauty. Perhaps we are the weaker for it; perhaps those who fight and suffer as this now passed young man know better the meaning of blessings, for they feel they have lost them. This is why I pray. I will continue to do so, for them, and for you.

This weekend, on Saturday (it is now Tuesday) I finally reached Coney Island. It is not, in fact, an island, as I had expected, though it does have a boardwalk and beach, along which I walked. I felt many a curious glance shot at me as I strolled. I do not suppose many Americans have seen a cardinal walk along the beach. But we seek repose from the heat and our lives just as they do. 

I rode the Wonder Wheel, to look out at the sea; I ate a hot dog, as Pius XIII had once recommended - though I myself do not recommend it. You ask after my “stuffed friends”: I did bring one from Rome (a deer), though he now has a friend - a goose (there were no mon-goose) that I bought from one of the vendors on the boardwalk. I have named him George, after a character from a show that is always on TV here. He and the deer (Guillermo) keep me company, though the bed remains cold and empty. I dread lying awake at night, even if the moon finds its way through the curtains.

At the beach I took off my shoes and let the water bury my feet in the sand. I thought of the first time I saw the sea - the first time I felt salt water and sand. It is no longer a novelty; the emotion has changed. I do not wish to escape, as I once did; to dive into the ocean and remain there, away from the shore. I would rather remain here, with your company. Thus I await your next letter. 

Always,  
Bernardo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bright, vintage style postcard that reads “Greetings from Coney Island - Miss You, Wish You Were Here” is included in the envelope.
> 
> Aside from boring meetings with bishops and walks through the park (as we shall see), Bernardo fills his time with American novels and Seinfeld. The subways sing: _somewhere there's a place for us._


	21. Chapter 21

Cherished Bernardo,

Thank you for the colorful postcard. Your Coney Island looks like a lively distraction. The scenes depicted remind me of the colors of the streets during Carnevale, where crowds mingle with masks on. It seems like years ago, when the parades and costumes flooded the streets of Rome.

Today I write you, not from the confines of my room, but from a cement table in the embassy garden. Traveling between the modest chapel and my room has become monotonous, and I thought it best to attempt to enjoy the slight breeze that has graced us this week. The heat has broken - a blessed event. I have come to find the fountains on three days this week, the sound of rushing water has inspired a calm within me where it was not present before. Earlier this week, I allowed myself the luxury of submerging myself into a cool bath. While uncomfortable (the tub is not as long as I am,) the water surrounding my chest and caressing my neck was the embrace I have longed for. 

I will be frank - the suffering present in this desert city is prominent. While most of my interactions are found with embassy personnel, a glance across the walls of the grounds reveal sickness, starvation, and death. Children beg and wander in the streets, under the shadows of skyscrapers and ancient temples. I pray for them, but I grow weary of appealing to Him to ease the suffering of so many.

An event I meant to recall to you in an earlier correspondence: Around the end of June, I was tasked to visit an area far south, in order to perform services for a remote military post. The priest who usually performs these rites was injured in a minor accident, and thus I was called in as a temporary replacement. Getting to the outpost was to take 2 hours via armored vehicle, and all necessary precautions had to be taken. I was given a helmet and vest to wear over my robes, and as I hugged my knees to my chest in the backseat of the vehicle, the unpaved roads jostled my insides. The other men in the vehicle, save the driver, were American. They chatted and coughed, as soldiers do. Approximately an hour into our journey, one of the soldiers tapped my shoulder and pointed to a vast field of blooming poppies. I was astounded at the vastness of the pink and white flowers, which towered over workers in the field. The soldier tapped the crook of his arm and made a slapping motion. “Heroin,” “heroin,” he motioned. My gaze fell to a young boy working in the field of pink and white, our eyes met momentarily as our vehicle passed by. He carried a burlap pack and was barefoot, gently slicing the flower pods with a large, curved blade. I wonder, who will pray for him when I move beyond his sight?

I apologize, this letter has taken a tone of reminiscence. It must be the red poppy I spied in the embassy garden, hidden among the ferns, causing me to daydream. 

I shall see if I can procure the American novel you mentioned. While obtaining novels is difficult here, it is not impossible. It just takes time. 

Faithfully Yours,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes - I was definitely thinking about Nirvana's "Heart Shaped Box" video on that second to last line. Technicolor and oh-so-bright, couldn't you just imagine a certain cardinal passed out lazily in the poppy fields?   
> \- Saint Malone


	22. Chapter 22

Dearest Mario,

To match you in your excursion to the gardens at the embassy, I have taken your letter and some stationary with me to Central Park, where I sit on a wooden bench overlooking the lake with its rowboats. Friends and lovers row past, giggling, struggling with the oars, admiring the beauty of the day, the cool of the shade and water. I confess, it is a bit uncomfortable without a table (I am resting on the book I brought with me), but it is worth it. 

This story that you recount to me is oddly touching, despite the fear you must have felt in that military vehicle with the unruly American soldiers (though I confess, I cannot imagine you in a bulletproof vest or a helmet; surely that would be a sight for the ages). But the vastness of the desert and the fields of poppy must have been magnificent - such a contrast between the two, an oasis of beauty (and sin, perhaps) among the rolling dunes and unending sky. One would not expect to find something so beautiful, seemingly untouched, in such a barren, otherwise frightful place. Perhaps I am becoming nostalgic too. I will look to see if I can find any poppies here, though I doubt it. I mostly see dandelions or the stray weed that crops up in a crack in the sidewalk. So life persists...

I have had little time to myself lately as I run about town, hence the brevity of this letter. The park and my writing to you is some of my only solace. I met with the other bishops of the region just the other day to discuss possible replacements. They bicker constantly, and came to no consensus. If this were the conclave, I expect the ballots would run for months and months with no end in sight. It is dreadful work, listening to them. I would rather perform the rites I sought to perform when I became a priest. I have of course gone to mass, but not served, and I do pray, but it feels uninspired. My prayers are most fervent, I have found, when a letter from you is due. I worry they will be held up despite their diplomatic associations. I worry for you, too. How can I not, when you write of suffering in the streets, armored cars, and bulletproof vests? There is suffering here as well, but a different sort: the businessman returning to an unhappy home, the florist with his demanding and relentless customers, the museum guard constantly yelling at tourists. They continue to live their lives; we live ours. I pray for them all, and for you. 

Always yours,  
Bernardo


	23. Chapter 23

My Dearest Bernardo,

I apologize for the delay in our correspondence. I went some days without receiving any item of mail, and as the days turned into more than a week, then nearly two, with nothing from you. I mentioned to an embassy administrator in passing that I was expecting a letter from a colleague, and he assured me that it would come eventually - a postal strike was occurring, and this mail delivery was halted. Within a few days, I checked with the front desk and they handed me your correspondence. A sense of relief flooded over me - I assumed you had settled within the city of New York, dazzled by its sights and sounds, and had filed me in the back of your mind.

You speak of the troubles of the businessmen and the florists, of the embrace of lovers and friends in the park. I envy these sights, dearest Bernardo. You will most likely find no poppies in Central Park at this time of year, as it is fairly late in the season for them to bloom. Even the few amongst the ferns here have shriveled and disappeared, and will remain unseen until next spring.

The men (mostly soldiers,) continue to file in and out of the chapel, crossing themselves and praying for their families and for peace, appealing to Him for a break in the heat and for food for hungry mouths. It has become routine, these months between June and the Holiest of Days, and the sun rises and sets on the vast desert. Along with your letter, I received notice from Italy that I must attend a mandatory spiritual retreat before the demands of the Christmas holidays become pressing. Though I am doubtful that the holidays will bring more responsibilities than an average week - more information was promised in time. I assume I will be shuffled to a mountain retreat in the Alps, or perhaps a mission outpost in Morocco. While the change of scenery is somewhat welcome, I have grown accustomed to my daily regimen, and am irritated by the impending disruption.

The military accessories - hat and vest - were surprisingly heavy. The weight, mixed with the oppressive heat of the desert gave me an awful headache, of which lasted long after I returned. As with many aspects of my stay in the embassy, I find myself humbled by the difficulties that a soldier faces: his trainings, his equipment, the distance from his loved ones. While I desperately yearn for the worldly distractions that surround the Vatican, the small pleasures here - the strong black coffee, the rare sound of the fountain flowing in summer, the pious young man who dutifully attends mass...have spurred much contemplation.

Tonight, I sleep more soundly, knowing that I am not forgotten by you, as I repose in exile. 

With Loyalty and Faith,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Theres a bit of a crumpling in the corners on the paper, almost as if sweat has soaked through the page.)


	24. Chapter 24

Beloved Mario,

I, too, was worried at the delay in correspondence. As I mentioned previously, I often find myself devoting myself more to my prayer and contemplation as the weeks pass and a letter is due. It has become apparent to me, in these last weeks, that this is because I do, truly, worry for you. Dare I even list the possibilities that lurk in the shadows of my mind, that creep to the surface as I lie awake at night, or when I open the drawer to see your past letters, which I cherish? Perhaps the least frightening is that I will have been lost in your thoughts, though I know that not to be the case. I do not doubt you: we are most experienced in faith (though perhaps this is naive of me: to be a priest does not necessitate fidelity), and I have faith in you, as I always will. 

Slightly more concerning is the thought that our letters will be intercepted, presumed to be suspicious - you know how these Americans can be - and then read by eyes for whom they are not meant. It’s not as if we are trading state secrets (does the Vatican have many in which Americans would be interested?), but I would prefer these letters be kept between you and me. The secret of the confessional, I suppose. 

But there is one thought, the most concerning of all - though I cannot bring myself to write it. It must overcome you often, as you write of soldiers and guns and vests and helmets; of sweat and blood, suffering and pain. To whom do you pray when you seek solace from such things? Do you find such solace in the embrace of the Lord? He comforts me, as do all the saints, yet I still worry. I pray for the day when you return safely to Italy or wherever else you may be sent, and are delivered from the horrifying and often desolate landscape you describe.

Will you miss the poppies? The trickling of the fountains, the eerie calm at night, the friendly or even antagonistic mongoose? Will you miss the pious men who take communion and escape from the midday sun, and leave their weapons at the door? When I see any of these things - a red flower, a fountain, a silent street - I think of you. When I see a poorly decorated chapel, gold leaf flaking or sparse, congregation small yet devoted, I think of you. I suppose men such as ourselves should say that God is in each of these things, and it is God that connects them all. I, though not to deny this, believe that these things connect _us_. We both can see the suffering on the street, the wilting flowers tired of the heat, the birds who bathe in the fountain, wherever we are. God allows this, yes. But for what purpose, if not to provide us a link to one another, even across an ocean?

I cherish the time we spend writing one another, and although I am pleased you will be going on some sort of retreat, I vainly find myself hoping it will not interfere with our correspondence. Perhaps I should go on a retreat as well. This might upset the Holy Father, who sent me here with a purpose, which I have yet to accomplish (though it will surely take longer than a few months, at this rate). But perhaps, when the fall comes and the leaves begin to turn, I will take the train up along the Hudson River, and spend a weekend in the mountains. Perhaps it will worsen my loneliness. Perhaps I ought to return to the beach.

Eternally and faithfully,  
Bernardo

P.S. On a walk the other day I came across the _Central Park Zoo_ \- a rather sad collection, though there was many a child pleased to see the penguins splashing about the water. I had hoped to find a mongoose, but was told they have none. I suppose Central Park is not an appropriate place for a desert animal, though neither does it suit a penguin. There was, however, a kangaroo, which served to both brighten and dampen (perhaps “neutralize”) my spirits. I returned to the embassy with a new companion, a hippo who I have named Gwen. She, George, and Guillermo send their regards from the city that never sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What remains unsaid is that Bernardo was not at all able to focus on his job with the petty bishops while awaiting a letter from Assente. He was constantly distracted and on edge, which certainly raised eyebrows from those who had become familiar with his otherwise pleasant attitude. - rpblcofletters


	25. Chapter 25

Dearest Bernardo,

You words find me in a time of transition, of more discomfort in a foreign land, of a great exhaustion from which I feel I will never wake. While the necessary commitments of the day are never terribly demanding, an enervation of the mind has taken me hostage. You may run through them at your leisure and at my expense - the heat, the pale-eyed soldiers blessing from the mouth, the starving children, the empty nights and mornings that I wake in a cold sweat...

I admire your ease and comfort within the world, my beloved Bernardo. Your words reach inside me and clutch at my senses, and I truly desire the solace you intend with them. I fear only the Lord Himself can relieve me from this wretched void, and yet I cling to the possibility that one day I may see Rome again and fall asleep within the confines of a familiar home, perhaps within familiar arms.

Tonight I write you from my bed, as I stretch upon the sheets and scatter the stationary around me, your prior letters out of sight. As our modest embassy yields little gossip for the nuns to peck over, I fear that their discovery of our correspondence would yield far too much attention. Buried deep within a worn leather travel bag, your letters reside among a locked box which I acquired at the local flea market. A small silver key holds them all inside, and I keep the key on a chain which I never remove from my chest. While I cannot predict if our letters are intercepted by official channels, I have done all I can to ensure the private nature of our tête-à-tête. Your worry is acknowledged and accepted, though I daresay of not much interest to national security. 

I admit, as I lay amongst the linen sheets and stray sand, as I reach for my third glass of a mediocre German wine I was gifted by a grateful soldier with green eyes, that my solace is not always found within the embrace of the Lord. While his guidance has brought me to the altar of devotion and piety, and has guided me through my weakest moments, I find myself facing my mortal, physical form and the desire which supersedes it. Which is why I lay in repose, three drinks deep, and words tumble onto the paper in which I write to you. 

I have received word that the spiritual retreat I spoke of earlier will take place in the Americas. I have no expectations, no predictions for this upcoming disruption, as still more information was promised. But yes, I will miss the quiet of the desert and the shadow of the poppies swaying in the embassy garden. Most of all, I will miss the sensation of delicately unsealing a letter from you, inhaling the momentary breath of anticipation and eagerness. 

Eternally Yours,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The handwriting became noticeably shaky toward the end of the letter, and there are wine stains at the bottom by the signature.


	26. Chapter 26

Sweet Mario,

You write that I am at ease and comfortable in this world; and while I confess that my surroundings and accommodation may be more pleasant than yours - no desert animals to steal my bread, or to drag sand across the floor; a vigilant maid who puts everything in its place, even the things that are purposefully left out - I doubt I am truly any more _comfortable_ than you. You seem to have accepted this fate of yours in exile; despite my fear for you, I imagine you have made a home among the dunes and fields of poppies, no longer off-put by the men with their guns and armored vests, dutiful in your office as you always have been. Like St. John the Baptist, you minister to those in need, a vision among the shifting sands. You have made yourself a place, even if you feel unbound to it. I, on the other hand, remain unthethered, like a wandering spirit: this is not my home, nor shall it ever be. I am but a guest, passing through.

I, too, wish to return to Rome. I have recounted to you the beauty that I often find, or at the very least, seek, here. Much as you write, it is not literally within the embrace of the Lord that I find it. But He is everywhere, is he not? He is as much in the lonesome rider of the late-night subway as in the cloistered nun; in the pinnacle of the Empire State Building as in the soaring vaults of St. Peter’s. Yet I find myself adrift. My agenda is much more concrete now than it had been on my first trip. Although I do have some time to myself, it is spent alone, in my room and makeshift office, or walking through the park. I have often been tempted by that physical desire of which you speak, though I have not conceded to it. There is no time or purpose for a trip to the liquor store. I still prefer a walk in the park. They remind me, if vaguely, of the gardens in the Vatican, though statuary is sparse, and it is filled with locals and tourists alike.

I have often happened upon a group of Spaniards or Italians, who look at me with some familiarity in their eye. I do tend to wear my cassock, which is, I suppose, less of a usual sight here - thus they recognize me as one of them, an outsider, a visitor. None have yet approached me, though I almost wish they would, for a semblance of normality, a breath of air from home. I often see them struggling to take group pictures, but do not have the courage to approach and ask if they need help. It would be a pleasant break from reading the constant letters and news I receive from the bishops, who all continue to bicker over this vacant position. There is a great legacy to live up to: the temperate Spenser, the holy Belardo, the vile Kurtwell - and now who will fill those shoes? This is a question to which I seek an answer, though doubt any will ever be suitable. I will always be seeking more, and never finding.

Here I feel the breath of autumn, and look forward to the changing leaves. If you are sent to the north, perhaps you will see them as well. If our correspondence is interrupted, at least we will have the comfort of the thought that we are closer, perhaps even on the same continent. I am sure I will know as soon as your feet hit the ground. I await it with anticipation.

Yours, always,  
Bernardo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assente has his American soldiers and German wine - and what of Gutierrez in the face of temptation? Temperance. - rpblcofletters


	27. Chapter 27

My Adoring Bernardo,

Today begins a span of intensely hot and dry days, where the temperature is predicted to climb to 40C by the week’s end. The fountains have been shut off for some time already, and again the embassy is quiet again except for the sounds of soldier’s heavy steps moving in and out of the gate. A few days ago, Muhammad began his annual leave, which will last two weeks - and made me staunchly promise that I will not leave the grounds unaccompanied. While the other soldiers are perfectly capable of taking over for him, I have a nagging feeling that he would feel betrayed if I were to leave with one of them. While not yet at its peak, the sweltering heat has made most food and drink unpalatable and I fear my interest in walks to the cafe has gone with it. While the desire for strong black coffee will return in time, it is now all I can do to perform mass without great difficulty, barring the swift installation of an air conditioning unit. I have complained of the poor ventilation in the embassy in the past so I shall not harp on the hardship, but the chapel’s location does not lend itself to the kind breeze of crosswinds.

I apologize for the hasty conclusions of my prior letter. I did not mean to imply that you were languishing among the skyscrapers and sands of Coney Island, or that your own longing for Rome does not claw desperately at your insides when the sun is traded for moonlight. You are correct about my reluctant outpost, my desert exile. Since I was young, I have had the ability to settle into corners and corridors, and make a home in the least likely of places. Many afternoons as a child, escaping from the discord of my mother and sisters fighting - raised voices and self assured haughtiness...I would venture to the quiet spaces of town, settling into vacant landscapes and dreaming away the hours. Dreams of the sea, of the stage, of American movies and cars, all became my dwelling. So yes, I am adept at this practice, of building a home where there was not but sand and sky before. Still, your being adrift brings me no solace, as you are not a ship on the high seas, thrown carelessly about for the Lord to collect later. Dearest Bernardo, perhaps those inquisitive tourists are the lifeline in which you seek, the breath of air that He has sent you?

While there are scant few leaves to darken in shades of red and gold here in Kabul, and I am told the humidity rises to uncomfortable levels, I welcome the change in seasons all the same. What are we put here for, but to long for what is to come? And I, adept at building houses in the sand, like the Builders of Matthew, await the crash.

I have received word of the retreats available to me in the coming months. One of them, Trinity Retreat House, looks quiet and contemplative - not far from the sea, not far from the things I hold close to my heart.

With Loyalty and Devotion,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to thank a fellow colleague for recently reminding me of Matthew's "Wise and Foolish Builders" parable that was the inspiration for this letter:
> 
> "Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash," (Matthew 7:24–27).
> 
> Essentially, this short paragraph explains those who are lavish and dramatic make the word of God about themselves, rather than about Him. Like the builder who erects his grand castle on the sand, there is no solid foundation, though the castle may be beautiful - it collapses easily under pressure. The wise builder, who builds a simple home on a solid foundation, remains untouched after the storm.
> 
> \- Saint Malone


	28. Chapter 28

Treasured Mario,

You had not mentioned your Muhammad in quite some time, which I suppose is a good thing - I would have been most upset to hear that he had gone to meet his son and his Lord by means of some horrid accident, or in the line of duty, protecting you. Indeed, my fears for your safety are never assuaged, though I worry for your happiness, as well. I trust that the other soldiers are, indeed, capable, but when one forms a bond with such a man, when one achieves such a level of trust, it is difficult to accept any lesser replacement. Though I have not had this experience with military matters or soldiers, I do understand the nature of such faith in one’s fellow man. Upon their disappearance one feels desolate. What can one do but pray?

You write of your youth, of dreams of movies and cars, of bickering sisters and discordant mothers. When you seek the memory of home, of the Vatican, do they come to mind? Much like you, the Vatican, not Tordesillas, is my home. As a child I was often praised by my teachers and adults for my quiet reserve, though they said this because it was all they saw, and knew nothing of my inner fears. I did not like to leave home, even go to school. I even dreaded our trip to Rome, though as soon as I set foot in St. Peters’ Square, I knew there was nowhere for me but there. Even “home” itself was not terribly comforting. My only solace was the dark of night, the dark expanse of the sky, accompanied perhaps by a book and a flashlight, or a “stuffed friend”, as you call them.

Do you still dream of the sea, of the stage, of things close to your heart? Do you attempt to catch sight of the distant poppy fields, flowers swaying in the wind’s breath? Do you look out for some mark of that day when you will return home - a date circled on the calendar, or some sign from the heavens - or do you simply go about your duties day to day, hoping that they will blend into one infinite afternoon where the sun lingers above the western horizon and never sets? I find myself in a liminal space between the two. Days pass into nights and into days again. I cannot see the stars with the bright of the city. I often look to the sky and see the moon or a stray cloud but nothing more.

I await your next letter, as always, eagerly. Though I am swamped with my duties as arbiter to the northeastern bishops, I am always overjoyed to hear that mail has arrived, and pleased to remove the piles of documents from my desk to pause and write to you. I wish to return to Coney Island one more time before the season ends, to feel the water lap against my feet, or watch the ebbing tide return to sea. As I wrote once before, I keep a weather eye.

Eternally,  
Bernardo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Bernardo, whom else do you miss? When he passes the corner-store, his eyes flash between the red flowers and the piles of oranges. - rpblcofletters


	29. Chapter 29

My Beloved,

Do you know why I write to you at night, eyelids heavy with the weariness of the day, fingers carelessly tracing the edges of this letter? It is not the quiet nor the still of the evening - it is never quiet nor still here. No, I write to you on these summer nights, moonlight cast across the sand and the darkened alleyways of Kabul, because it is the only time of the day I begin to feel at ease. Whether in the company of one guard, a hundred guards, or at the pulpit of a thousand Masses, nothing feels correct here. It is as if God himself skewed the horizon, and cast this city with it. Despite my ability to surround myself with the familiarities and comforts of home - fine linen pyjamas, precious Golden crosses picked from the marketplace in Rome, a cappuccino cup from a long closed cafe, the smooth beaded rosary you sent me near the beginning of our correspondence - nothing brings peace. I wake in the night, sweating and disoriented, panicking, “Where am I?” Ah, but Mario, this is your home, this is your home.

But as the day turns to the crepuscule before night descends, I smell the incense and dinner cooking from homes nearby, a reminder that my comfort has never been driven by a calming hearth. Like you, dearest Bernardo, a room flooded with moonlight and a book is all I need to accompany me. I have resigned myself to a life of flight and movements made carefully in the dark.

Strangely, I heard a scratching at my window just now, and upon inspection I see that the mongoose has stashed a crumb of something or other under the sill. Perhaps he feels most comfortable at night as well, where he can slink and scurry without the threat of the soldiers taking potshots at him. A safe retreat unto the sand and gardens.

My gaze is always cast heavenward, (which is not a permission to poke fun at my height, mind you) and the stars are visible here. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of a falling star toward the hills, which I pray isn’t actually the remnant of an aerial ballistic. Upon seeing this star, I prayed for an end of humanity’s suffering - an end to the infinite afternoons of summer. In the words of Blessed Cardinal Newman, “May He support us all the day long, till the shades lengthen, and the evening comes....”

Please tell me how your concluding trip to the Coney Islands finds you, and if you find comfort within its sands. 

You inquire if I dream of things like the sea and the stage, and indeed I do. While one swallows you whole and the other spits you out in pieces, they are both distant relics of a life once lived. As for things close to my heart, I dream of them often, perhaps even more than the sea and stage. I inquire in return: if the things that are close to your heart are so far away, with little hope of coming to fruition - do you dare even desire them in the first place?

Yours Regardless,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely listening to Morrissey's "Viva Hate" while writing this. Is it that obvious?  
> \- Saint Malone


	30. Chapter 30

Beloved,

You write of moonlight, summer eves, dusty alleys, and of pulpits, men at arms, lost horizons. To put it on paper like that sounds so horribly romantic, as if I am writing a crusader-knight rather than a brother cardinal. Does the darkness of night truly console you so? Are you so ill at ease during sultry daylight hours and only pass the time until the sun crosses that ever distant horizon, and only then you feel yourself? Do you ever truly feel yourself, in a land so distant from home, from what you love? Or, with your linen pajamas and a blanket cast off as you lie in bed, do you look at the moonlight that finds its way through the curtains and seek the comfort it offers, knowing that that same moon shines on Rome? That, although I cannot see them, those stars shine above the twinkling lights of Manhattan?

I try to tell myself these things, but I too wake in the middle of the night, searching the dark of the room for some semblance of familiarity. My fraught dreams are of two varieties: one that stems from the stress of my daily life - clamoring American bishops, stacks of files, endless hallways, tasteless churches, passionless masses; the other from a more poetic part of my subconscious: endless sand beaches and shores that turn into deserts, the mirage of a distant city and the hope of reaching it before nightfall, before the water runs out, before the desert sands consume you. Despite the literary beauty of the latter (it is even cathartic to see it on paper), it causes me such a fright when I wake up in the night, clutching the blankets in which I have tangled myself. 

This recalls to me a line I read not long ago from Calvino, in a book I picked up at _the Strand_ (a famous bookstore): “If you want to know how much darkness there is around you, you must sharpen your eyes, peering out at the faint lights in the distance.” It had been underlined by its previous owner. I find myself contemplating this as I write you, and think of you as a traveler through the eastern deserts. How dark is this darkness? Is there any light that peeks through it? Is it truly so comforting, and more so than the light of day?

One can hope, as I certainly do, that the thought of something is comforting, even if that thing is so distantly far, it seems almost non-existent. But if visibility is the mark of existence and hope, and invisibility marks absence, what are we, in our crimson robes? Do I dare desire solace, even if my Lord seems so far away? Do I dare desire comfort, if that comfort lies on the other side of the world? Such questions cause more pain than the thought of solace and comfort provide. ~~The thought of y~~ [scratched out] these letters provide me the solace I seek, even if it is only a small token of comfort. 

Perhaps my exile and reading such literary things as Calvino has made me wax poetic. But I digress. There is little poetry in my work - the irony of working in a profession so full of mystery.

I have not had time to return to Coney Island, though the desire remains. I fear I will not be able to make it back soon; although contained within the same city as my room in this townhouse, it would take more than an hour and multiple transfers on the subway to reach, and although I have the patience, I have scarcely a moment to spare. I almost fear that, if the Bishop of Brighton were to catch me, he would scorn me for not attending to my duties. (I kid; there is no Bishop in Brighton. That is where all the Russian Orthodox live). However, the other day I did give myself a treat - I went to the observation deck at 30 Rockefeller Plaza (which they call _Top of the Rock_ ), which is not terribly far from the office in the consulate, where I often meet with the bishops. The view was spectacular, even more so than expected. I could see all the way down the island if Manhattan - the Empire State Building, the Freedom Tower, the distant speck of the State of Liberty (“give me your tired, your poor”), and the sea beyond. I did not dare act as a tourist the last time I was here; I am more comfortable with it now, I suppose. As I stood there, I thought of the distance our letters travel; of the distance between us and our home. I found something of comfort standing there among the tourists, who joked that they could all but see their homes - Chicago, Shanghai, Budapest - from so high up. Perhaps if I squinted hard enough I, too, could see the pinnacle of St. Peter’s. But again I recall a line from Calvino: “you take delight not in a city’s seven or seventy wonders, but in the answer it gives to a question of yours.” What answers have you found in Kabul? What answers will you find on your mysterious retreat to the Americas?

Always, eternally your Bernardo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite letter of them all. - rpblcofletters


	31. Chapter 31

Dearest Bernardo,

My deepest and most sincere apologies for the recent lack in correspondence. I mentioned previously that an unprecedented heat wave wraps the August desert, sending temperatures soaring. As I was giving Mass on the previous Sunday, I found myself stumbling over the simplest of tasks - words began to tumble from my mouth with unexpected resonance, my fingers trembled, and I inadvertently knocked the Communion chalice to the floor. Nearly 5 hours later, I awoke in my bedroom with a nurse at my bedside with no memory of how I had gotten there. She informed me that I had fainted from heat stroke. Embarrassed, nauseated, and weak, I noted that my cassock and liturgical robes had been removed. The vaguely disinterested nun noted that luckily, a visiting doctor had been on business at the embassy, and saw to my needs. Behind her, I noticed a large box fan had been set within the window frame. Deliriously, I noted the a tepid, melting bucket of ice, pooling water onto the rug below it. I wondered aloud where the ice had come from. The nun scoffed, and advised me to go back to sleep. She held a book in her hands, and I collapsed into the blanket of damp towels which lined my sheets.

This unexpected affliction, arriving as an unwanted guest, greatly disturbed my routine. Although I felt mentally capable, exhaustion and malaise gripped me for nearly four days and nights - sending chills down my back and neck, causing me to tremble. Sleep and reality intertwined, the nun assigned to my bedside chattered and squeaked like the mongoose, and I dreamed of opening giant door frames amongst a field of poppies. At some point, I awoke, your name at the tip of my tongue, but I could not remain conscious for long enough to pen a response, and the chattering nun blocked the path between my bed and stationary, wrapped tightly in its leather case in my closet. So, I suffered in sweat, dripping with the heat of the desert and fever. On the fifth day, I could manage to drink and hold down food. Today, I was able to maintain semblance of normality - the seventh day of this perilous malady - and the nun was sent back to her duties. Her perfume scent, or clothing detergent, lingers annoyingly in the spot where she sat. 

Within my fever dreams, the unease and discomfort acute, I felt as if a rabid animal had occupied my mind, clawing at the walls and ceiling. I traveled across the ocean, wandered among the desert sand, possessed by the spirit of St. John the Baptist, possessed by a holy restlessness, and longing for embrace. 

Before I sat to recall these fever dreams to you, before I emerge unto the world again, I noticed an envelope on my desk, from Italy. Within, confirmation that I will be traveling to New York in the month of October, arriving on the Feast of Our Lady of the Rosary. Is this part of my fever dream as well? Please, beloved and with mercy - upon the sands and under the sky, let this be the most beautiful reverie if so.

Always Devoted and at Your Call,  
Mario


	32. Chapter 32

Sweet, sweet Mario,

Before you read further, know how much your letter worried me (more than its delay). I will not ask too much about, because you must still be tired. I’m glad you are well now. 

In any case. I have written before about the fears that consume me when the post from Kabul is delayed: I dare not return to them now, as not to worry you (or myself) - but just the same, a week’s delay is nothing in exchange for the knowledge that you are safe.

Fear of some horrible occurrence that would result in your, dare I say it, death, is one thing - I can do nothing in the face of terrorists or military men, or even pickpockets for that matter. But to know that you are unwell from something so trifling and familiar as heat stroke pains and worries me perhaps even more deeply. I would be so terrified to be sick in a foreign land, with foreign doctors and foreign medicine, or to wake up with a foreign nun at my side. How hopeless I feel, knowing that I receive your letters long after you send them, and the same of mine for you - that is, now that I know you were unwell, you will have recovered; and with your recovery, there is no need for my worry, or my frantic hand searching to write some sort of comforting message or give you some advice on the management of heatstroke (which I often succumbed to as a boy - once in the Alhambra, which caused a great fuss among the tourists). But surely the locals - your nun, for example - have experience with this and can offer equal or even better advice than a simple Castilian priest such as myself. My mother always said that gazpacho protects from heatstroke, and I must have internalized this, because as soon as I read of your illness I found myself wondering if you had access to it, and myself craving it. (Although I am sometimes sentimental about my youth and recall many things from it, one thing that has escaped me is my mother’s recipe for gazpacho. Besides, she was a wicked woman - and as ~~I believe it was Chopin~~ [crossed out] Beethoven writes, “he (or she) who has not pure of heart cannot make a good soup”. You are pure of heart, but I do not know if you can cook. So please pass the recipe to whoever prepares your meals on my behalf.)

Of course, though, I still am worried. How could I not be? It’s lucky your mother doesn’t know; she would be inconsolable, even for the knowledge that you are fine now. But of course you fainted during mass. The vestments are so heavy, especially in the heat. Were you wearing full trousers too? I know of some monks who don’t, particularly in the summer, but I‘m not sure I myself would go that route. And now that you are well again, are you staying in the cool air? You must, despite what you Italians say about colpo d’aria. This is why gazpacho is good: it will keep you cool. I think of the tourists who try to bathe their feet in Rome’s fountains; of Mastroianni in _La dolce vita_. Are the fountains running in Kabul? Even the sound of water will bring you refreshment. And drink a lot of water - _not_ alcohol, it will only make it worse (I know this well); and cigarettes too, perhaps. What does your Muhammad think of all of this? ~~Was he as worried as I, or did he see this as another vacation?~~ [heavily scratched out]. Do you still have those nightmares and fever dreams? The depths of summer bring those, I always find, but I hope you sleep more easily now. Chamomile tea helps with this, but perhaps you can make it iced? But I’m so glad you are well now. I suppose the nun must have taken good care of you, even if you distrust her, but you must take my advice. 

And for as much as your letter disturbed me, the last bit was so refreshing. New York! Tell me more about this retreat. How long will it last? Will you have time here before you have to return to Rome? And will you be flying into Manhattan, directly from Kabul? (The Americans will not be frightened by that, I hope.) Oh, Mario, the thought of seeing you, even if only for a moment, erases all the previous panic. And if we do not have such a chance (heaven forbid), our feet will be on the same ground: there will be no sea to separate us, no need to stand on the sandy shore and look out to the horizon. I cannot wait for that moment. Our Lady of the Rosary: I shall pray to her, for you.

Yours, ex corde cordium aeterne  
Bernardo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Handwriting is incredibly shaky and many words are rewritten to make up for illegibility. Included in the envelope is a printed page from the New York Times Cooking section with a recipe for “Best Gazpacho”.


	33. Chapter 33

My Devoted Bernardo,

I receive your letter with great gratitude, but I must implore you not to fuss about my well-being. I was careless - perhaps a glass of wine too many before bed caused dehydration. Recall, the conditions of the embassy are woefully inadequate, the ventilation poor, and it was of my own negligence that I regarded the environment as a deceptively familiar comfort, rather than a harsh desert of reality. The flowing fountains of the Vatican, a constant, cool water supply without interruption - all these things are luxuries here in Kabul. Even the very fact that a bucket of ice appeared in my room is a rare sight, and I am not sure of its exact origin. Perhaps you have the luxury of cooling in your American apartment, but as for me, a small box fan is all I’m afforded. Interestingly, the soldier’s tents which dot the desert landscapes are often air conditioned - provided by the military, of course. But as for me, I am not an important enough asset to waste precious cooling resources on. I shall make do with my box fan and tepid bathtub.

The temperature still soars here, but a humidity has set in, strange for the dry and arid climate of the desert. Last night, a lightning storm flashed in the mountainous distance, but no rain falls upon the city. In this awe-inspiring sight, It as if God is holding his breath, waiting for autumn to appear. 

The heatstroke left me with a lingering, peculiar exhaustion, and I find myself napping in the later afternoons with more frequency than before. My dreams are vivid, painted in swatches of red and gold, the fields of poppies traded in for harsh lighting of the theater stage. I often find myself waking suddenly from these afternoon naps as they liquefy into nightmares, opening my eyes just before the lacquered wood of the stage splinters and punctures my ankles, before the blood starts to flow.

Despite the exhaustion, my routine has returned to a semblance of normality since my absence, and my duties have resumed, vestments in full. In an attempt to remain at a cooler temperature, I have traded in my wool-cotton trousers for a fine linen pair, though I am not overly fond of the way they crease and hang against my legs. By the end of the day, they are often stretched out, and look sloppy.

Muhammad was informed of my malady, but was reassigned to another Italian National while I took ill. I do not know if he will return to accompany me to the cafe or market again, as men like him are often called to more immediate assignments than when faced with a heat-stricken cardinal. In the meantime, I am told that another soldier will take his place, but I have not yet met him. 

I pen this to you in the afternoon heat (as opposed to the nightly heat, or the morning heat,) and yes, there is water - not alcohol - by my side. While I would very much like to try your gazpacho, I must wait until another chaperone is assigned to me before I venture to market. The cook here speaks neither Italian nor English, so I will save the recipe for my own. While The native cuisine here is thick, flavorful, and heavy...it is not always a preferable choice in the oppressive heat. Many nights I forgo these dinners, leaving the crumbs for the foraging mongoose. Though, I heed your warning, and will attempt to eat something as to not prolong my malady.

But, I wonder: Am I pure of heart, dearest Bernardo? Do you imagine me a saint, hands clasped and eyes gazing Heavenward, as I wander the desert in exile? Despite, I recall St. John Henry Newman’s words to the Brothers of the Oratory, that even in the face of adversity, one can be assured in the tranquility of knowing that someone thinks of them in times of need. I am not sure I can be as confident in this declaration, but I truly hope that I am granted mercy and forgiveness in His grace, as I was not sent to the desert for fun or reprieve. When there is no ocean between us, no horizon in the distance, will the solace of a pure heart remain?

The retreat takes place over the course of seven days. Due to the irregularity of international travel, I have been granted two free days before arrival, in which I will arrange for lodging in New York from the night of the 4th to the night of the 6th, and pray I will not remain on the tarmac of a foreign airport for longer than needed. I will be traveling from Kabul to Istanbul for a brief layover, then on to New York. From there, I shall take the train to the retreat on the 7th. I would very much enjoy a moment with you - even if brief, as your responsibilities allow. As for me, my heart swings at the inclination that I will be among the company of a familiar face, under the skyline of another foreign land, no matter how fleeting.

Always and Eternally Yours,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the promise, there’s clearly a wine stain on the envelope.


	34. Chapter 34

Dearest,

Though the calendar tells me summer lingers on, I feel the breath of autumn upon us - something in the angle of the sun, the leaves becoming withered and dry on the trees. There are no more of those summer rainstorms of which we’ve had a few, that come upon us suddenly and flood the streets - businessmen hiding under their newspapers and briefcases, tourists in ponchos, umbrella salesmen - and then disappear, the sun returning to banish all the damp. I feel that desert dryness in the air - though I have no right to talk of it to you, do I? Though the air has that tinge of difference, there is still the heat and the burning sun above. I am lucky to have the air conditioning in my room and my office; I’ve grown used to it, though I sometimes find myself awake and cold in the middle of the night, alone in my room, in this city. A calendar hangs on my wall - it was here before I arrived - each month with a different reproduction of some antique map of the stars. Summer ends 21 September, though for you I suppose it never ends. By the time you arrive here, though, it will truly be autumn.

I’m glad you’re feeling better after your episode. I _was_ terribly worried, and some of it remains. Nevertheless, I admit I’m rather jealous of your afternoon naps. Here I continue my dreadful, fruitless work (hence the brevity of this letter, I’m afraid). We are coming closer to finding a proper candidate, though once that occurs, I believe I will be expected to wait until he is approved by His Holiness, and I will be expected to serve at the consecration. I have never consecrated a bishop before - so, an exciting prospect, though it seems so far off, and I am so busy that I haven’t even had the chance to glance to the page in my missal with the propers for such a consecration. 

But my business will not be an issue when you arrive. I haven’t taken a single day off (aside from the implied Sundays) since I arrived here, and surely no one will mind if I leave early on that Friday, perhaps to meet you at the airport? We can discuss logistics another time (do relay the flight number when you have it). But perhaps you can stay here, as a guest of Monsignor Amatucci? There’s certainly enough space - countless unused bedrooms, a dining room for more than ten, and extensive kitchens meant to serve them all. But perhaps two cardinals, even one from Kabul, would be intimidating for him, even with the Holy Father’s favor. 

And what do you plan to do in New York? The tourists will mostly be gone in October, save for the bus of school children to the museum or the zoo, or the lingering snowbirds (as they call them) postponing their flights to their winter homes in Florida until the weather takes a turn for the worse. You speak fondly of the stage - surely there will be something playing at the ballet? (People talk so proudly of Broadway, though I have never seen a show. My father was fond of opera, so I always feel a nostalgia when I hear the screech of a soprano. They are often long and tedious, if romantic. I know little about them besides the music. Tell me what you think). Or perhaps a stroll through the park, to see the autumn flowers, the leaves beginning to show their colors, the ducks on the lake. There are no stars that show themselves above Manhattan, but perhaps you can find your way to Coney Island and gaze across the sea, as I so often have. But rather than stare in solitude, I will be at your side. 

Eternally,  
Bernardo

P.S. To respond to your question, which I neglected in my haste. How can a man lacking pure heart write such poetry as you? The purity is not in action, but in soul. Hence the presence of God in the highwayman, the subway rider, the park rat; the flaking gold leaf, the desert sands, the empty sky.


	35. Chapter 35

My Beloved,

The heat has finally broken, hopefully a sign that autumn - whatever form it takes in Kabul - will be present soon. Though I am told the difference between summer and fall in Kabul is scant, and leaves do not redden until late October. Do you recall, that curious turning point on the calendar between the last week of August and the first week of September, when the masses of tourists begin to dissipate? Where the crowded halls of June and July make it impossible to get from one room to the next, only isolated footsteps echo in September? What cosmic clock ticks time to a close, beckoning the visitors homeward? Do they wake up, August 30th, and simply decide they’ve had enough, that it is time to pack up the spoils of luxury boutiques and souvenir shops, piling their victories into a suitcase and returning home? The dissipation of the crowds remind me that the Winter holidays are quickly approaching, the sun setting on the “lazy” days of summer. However, with the slowly falling temperatures here, comes wind, and with wind comes dust storms, blotting out the sun for a day or two. The sky turns to haze and sand covers the leaves of what is left in the garden and collects on top of spider’s webs.

Though, as the seasons lurch forward, I found myself wanting to visit the cafe again, and perhaps see if the late summer vegetables are available from the farmers at market. I am told that Ka Faroshi alley is lined with cages of birds in all shapes and hues, sold by eager salesmen. Small, caged pet birds are quite popular with locals, and a rare species from Europe can fetch quite the price and admiration from onlookers.

I inquired about Muhammad at the front desk, and the administrators exchanged nervous glances, and let me know he had been dispatched to a unit on the Pakistani border, in company of a diplomat. In turn, I will be assigned a new chaperone, but it will take a few days to file the necessary paperwork. I have come to expect this bureaucratic shuffle from any administration - the loss of Muhammad’s protection to another foreign national, predicted. I pray that the Lord protects him and guides him, his son watching over him from God’s kingdom. May St. Michael pray for Muhammad, and for us. 

So, I await my new armed companion impatiently, quickly tiring of the cheap, bagged coffee, and American tobacco available at the embassy. I miss my Monds, and the tables of old men sitting in tents, smoking their hookahs under the blazing sun.

I have few plans for New York, opting to allow spirit to guide me. Perhaps a visit to the art museum, or a walk through Central Park, as it has been so long since I have been to your city, I am unsure of what to see. While my solitude here in the desert is vast and greets me with open arms, I admit that I am looking forward to admiring the crowds of New York from a safe distance, perhaps a balcony or cafe. While crowds in Kabul are of course common, there is always an unease and threat of violence. Americans are docile, smiling creatures, and do not stoke such agitation - other than their penchant for wearing gym clothing in public. 

I have not yet solidified my overnight accommodations, but I shall not impose on Monsignor Amatucci, nor you. I fear I may already take up too much of your time, away from your duties. Although I appreciate your gracious offerings, I must decline that you meet me at the airport, as I will be disheveled and not fit for polite conversation. We shall meet in the morning after my arrival, when I am refreshed and presentable to the world.

Show me your snowbirds and starless skies, dearest Bernardo. I am at the mercy of your company.

Always and evermore,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A small, colorful feather is enclosed in the envelope - no explanation given.)


	36. Chapter 36

Dear Mario,

During my days here in New York I think, strangely, with nostalgia on things like the hordes of tourists that besiege Rome in the summer, and suddenly disappear in the fall and winter. The city thrives when fed with their nervous energy as they run from monument to monument, and then suddenly it is ours again - one sees the devout, cassocked missionary priest strolling through the halls of the museums with wonder in his eyes, looking at the treasurers of the Mother Church, without countless families around him, children climbing their parents’ legs as they rush through the infinite halls to reach their destination (the Sistine, for an illicit photo). I never thought I would miss this. When I see it there, I do feel a sort of resentment that this visit simply serves to check the “Vatican” box off their list of to-dos on their few days in Rome. But then again, was I not just a tourist once, dragged to the basilica of St. Basilica by my mother, who purported to be on a _pilgrimage_? And now I wear the crimson cap. How many of those who visit Rome feel the call, as I did - and for those who do not, I hope they find something equally as beautiful and comforting. But perhaps not. As our Pius once said, _they are only passing through_. 

But New York. Here of course there is a season for tourism - Americans and foreigners alike rushing to see the Empire State Building or stand on 5th Avenue - but it is not nearly the same. There are no _sites to see_ in the same way. New York, I have found, is an experience, not just a place. One cannot simply _see_ Greenwich Village or the Upper West Side as the Americans _see_ Trastevere and Testaccio. But so many of the tourists here, too, have a different purpose and perspective. Hence the businessman on his pilgrimage to Wall Street, or wherever else the innumerable men and women in suits are going while they stream out of the train stations and walk with that purposeful stride to their places of business. We in Rome are so different. Even at work we are slow, measured; there is no rush. Perhaps this is why I have found myself so at ends with the bishops here. They remain New Yorkers, and I Roman. (You call it my city, but it is no such thing. Can it truly be, when I stand on the shores and look out towards home?)

I am sad to hear that you have lost Muhammad, who it seems to me was perhaps your only acquaintance (dare I say friend?) in that barren landscape, besides the mongoose. Have you perhaps acquired a new, feathered friend to replace him? When I was a boy, friend of my mother’s had finches - little small things that would yell rather than talk, and jump around without the elegance once sees in an eagle or parrot or other, grander species. And this woman herself was not unlike her pets: I would come home from school to find her sitting at the table, chirping away as my mother chopped vegetables or did some other menial chore, in which she had no passion and put no heart. I could hear this chirping even when I went to my room and closed the door, and buried my head beneath the pillow. I can even hear it now, as I recall this señora, of whom I was never fond. I preferred her birds: they, at least, did not gossip to my face (or if they did, I did not understand them). 

But yes, I regret that you are not able to go out into the city on your own, and partake in the local urban life. Doing so here has become terribly mundane and unstimulating. I have little reason to go out, aside from my trips between the embassy and my lodging. Monsignor Amatucci has a cook who will readily prepare whatever I ask, though I am not one to put in many requests, so she often opts for simply, though well-made meals that are fulfilling and sometimes even stimulating. (They say American cuisine is boring. Not so, though I would ask what one defines as American cuisine. There are so many options here, if I ever go out, though I don’t do so too regularly. I’ll have to show you, though, some of the restaurants I’ve found - things completely unavailable and even unthinkable in Rome. Hopefully you won’t be too scandalized.) 

Thus I try to do something outside of my routine every other day or so - though this has become a routine in itself, this trying to do something out of the ordinary. I often do something so simple as a walk in the park, though I think I may go the museum within the coming days. It is on these outings that I often find exciting new restaurants - cuisines so exotic to us in Rome as Korean or Vietnamese or Peruvian. I almost wish, however, I had reason to go to the grocery store or some such, to do something so mundane and human, to feel like I belong here, rather than acting like the neither unwelcomed nor cherished tourist. I am a regular at no stores, as I may once have been. I don’t even recognize the workers on the subway: things here are so fast, so consistent in their inconsistency. I miss the careful steadiness of Rome.

I look forward, then, to your arrival. You will be a welcome disruption to my dreadfully boing existence here. We can walk through _the Village_ as they call it, or watch the passersby in their gym clothes (this struck me as well, though I have since become used to it), or eat whatever strikes your fancy. Surely not the excitement of Kabul, with the rowdy streets of which you speak. Instead, the docile American, and us, two cardinals among a sea of pigeons. 

I would ask again about your flight, but I suppose you won’t want me to surprise you at the airport. You would be unmistakable, though - I could see you from a mile away. Tell me when you’ve found accommodation and if you need anything from this side of the Atlantic before you arrive. 

Ever yours,  
Bernardo


	37. Chapter 37

My Beloved Bernardo,

Once again, I find the need to apologize for the shortcomings of the local postal service, which has taken its time delivering your last letter to me. I am told that in the late summer, staff shortages are impacted by severe weather, and thus operate on a delayed schedule. While this is understandable and necessary, I find the interruption in service disruptive, particularly when I am waiting for information about my travel accommodations.

In the meantime, fall draws ever closer, as the leaves on trees begin to ever-so-slowly crumble and golden. While true autumn will not appear for some weeks, the corners of the landscape are touched with recognizable traces of the seasons turning. As far as I am from civilization as I recognize it, from those I hold dear - the familiarity of fall makes motion to comfort me. I fear that those who grace my chapel’s doorstep are longing for this same comfort, but may not get to enjoy it in the same way I will.

New York City is certainly renowned for its tourism, and it must currently be comparable to the chaos that is Rome in the summer. But, you say, New York is something to experience. Are the neighborhoods not filled with museums and plaques, of monuments and landmarks? Unfortunately, whether Rome, New York, Tokyo, or Paris - all are as foreign and distant to me as the heavenly horizon. Upon arrival to Kabul, the moment my feet stepped upon the earth, the distance of my world shrunk. Four walls of my room, four walls of the embassy, every movement measured and contained. Sometimes I feel as if I am contorted and restricted into unnatural shapes, the blue skies of Italy replaced with the grey, brutalist buildings of a forgotten regime. I am no longer in the open, I am no longer accepted into the fray of confident brotherhood, I am on its margins. What is this beacon on the horizon, this sense of home we both recall? This “careful steadiness,” as you call it. Do we desire His embrace in a familiar landscape, in a familiar world, as if time itself stutters to a halt? As you turn toward the ocean and I to the sand, when do our temporal paths converge and coalesce? 

I have been assigned another soldier, this one American, who is pale, freckled, and thin, with reddish hair, light eyes. He is quite a bit younger than Muhammad. He introduced himself as Gabriel, and immediately began chattering about a girlfriend back home. He identifies himself as a Christian, though admitted his parents were not diligent about making he and his brothers attend church. He talks very, very, very much. Like the delay in our correspondence due to the postal service, this is also a disruptive event, and generally unwanted. I recognize the necessity for a chaperone, but I cannot help but miss the quiet companionship of my former guard. Gabriel does not smoke, nor chew tobacco, and when I go to fetch cigarettes he eyes me with a curious indifference. Perhaps he will be called to combat soon.

Along with your letter, I received acknowledgement of my travel accommodations. I will be staying at the Park Central Hotel, which I am to assume is quite close to Central Park. Highly polished photos indicate an uninteresting modern interior, I am not overly concerned with this - it is but a room to sleep in. The large, green park is where my interests lie, this is where I would like to linger, weather allowing, and enjoy the autumn settling into the corners of yet another foreign land. While I myself am just passing through as a weary tourist, the thought of inhaling the cool, crisp air of a fall morning does compel me. While I may be unmistakable in appearance, I want nothing more than to disappear into the crowds.

Loyally Yours,  
Mario


	38. Chapter 38

My Dear Mario,

I receive your letter, as always, with joy: all others who communicate with me, be it from across the sea or the other side of the street, do so through email, which deeply lacks the poetry of written word. We Catholics love history and tradition so much, and yet the very Pope sends me text messages instead of letters. My virtual inbox is filled to the brim; looking at (or even thinking about) it gives me a headache. I confess, it gave me a horrid migraine that left me indisposed for almost an entire two days, which massively angered the bishops who still bicker among themselves. My ailment I was not nearly as severe as yours, though, and I recovered very quickly. Now in order to avoid that fatigue, I leave my phone at home and go for walks in the park (as I always did) - yet there everyone is looking at their phones as well. I suppose there is no escape, aside from here, in our letters. 

In any case, you write of late summer calamities, and I am reminded of that Italian favorite, the Assumption of the Virgin, which you celebrate through the entire month of August. Perhaps your mailmen were celebrating Ferragosto as well? I was disappointed to find that Americans have no such thing: businessmen continue to work through the end of summer heat; businesses remain open (which I suppose is convenient in a sense, but lacks quaintness). The wealthy flee and go out on Long Island or up to New England for the beaches, which I hear are not particularly lovely, and instead polluted and crowded. I recall Coney Island, which itself was enjoyable specifically because of its incredibly contrived atmosphere - cotton candy, roller coasters, beachgoers incredibly self-aware of the irony of the situation. I wonder what these posh Americans seek when they take their families out of the city. Do they stand on the shore and wish for home? Out of the city, do they stare up at the night sky, now littered with stars that show away from the bright lights? I hope they find some solace. Little remains here.

The city feels infinite; the country itself is inordinately larger. Hundreds of streets that look the same on every corner - coffee shops, convenience stores, pharmacies, all in an unpredictable and yet somehow repetitive pattern of Anglophone names, all of which blur in my mind. If it wasn’t for the fact that the streets were numbered, I surely would be lost. 

I lately have returned to that bookstore I once mentioned, the Strand - which, when you come, you’ll have to visit. It is very overwhelming, but enticing just the same. I found in their foreign language section a copy of Lorca’s _Poet in New York_ , which I found very appropriate. (I do believe I quoted one of his poems to you previously, as well...) When one of the shopkeepers noticed that I was holding it, she recommended to me a biography of him, which recently been published for the 90th anniversary of his time in this sleepless city. So I have been reading it, a few pages here and there, in my scant spare time. He, too, found New York an odd sort of refuge away from home, a more voluntary exile than that which we are experiencing. And although he had friends here, he was still equally as lost. Hence, perhaps, the heart-wrenchingly beautiful poems:

_Life is not a dream ...  
We fall down stairs and eat the moist earth,  
Or we climb up to the snow’s edge with the choir of dead dahlias.  
But there is no oblivion, no dream:  
Raw flesh. Kisses tie mouths  
In a tangle of new veins  
And those who are hurt will hurt without rest  
And those who are frightened by death will carry it on their shoulders._

What does this say to us, two men who have climbed to the snow’s edge, who are hurt without rest? What do we do when we stand out and look at the sea, the eternal sands, if not expect oblivion? He writes of sleepless nights and the Brooklyn Bridge, and I feel in his words the terrible longing that I believe aches within us both.

Your Gabriel sounds perhaps not a particularly diligent soldier by your standards, though I suppose you will make do. He is probably lonely, as well, in this foreign land. I regret that he is away from his love, across the sea and the sands. But the same sun and stars shine above their heads, and I pray he remains safe, and that they shall be reunited soon.

The same to you, dear heart. The days are numbered until you transverse that eternal, infinite sea. What will you find when you cross it? Will the sands feel so incredibly different beneath your feet, with a familiar face at your side? Or will we remain two lost souls, though we stand together?

Ever your Bernardo


	39. Chapter 39

Beloved,

Time lingers on, and I see that I am precisely one month away from departure to New York. Perhaps it is anxiousness and anticipation which preoccupies my mind, drifting my thoughts to your section of the world. I fear my silence may have piqued your worry yet again, and for this I reassure you that my solitary nature sometimes gets the better of these endless afternoons and nights. Forgive me again, beloved Bernardo, and instead focus on what is to come.

While I am in possession of the necessary technological tools of our modern world, I have little patience or need for them - there are days in Kabul where a cellular phone is no more than a cumbersome brick, satellite service is frequently interrupted (as are so many amenities here.) Mostly I am received by the traditional letter and by the occasional email, and if necessary, I check this on the embassy computer, which is wired to a secure connection. I have more than once spied a security guard wasting away his hour, playing computer games on a hot afternoon. Such games do not tend to hold my attention, however. While my dexterity is intact, it favors my feet rather than my hands.

As infinite as the city, as infinite as the night sky, as infinite as the desert. I imagine the residents of your city are as ubiquitous as grains of sand, who are swept away with the wind and water, collecting in corners of their homes and offices.

Talkative as ever, Gabriel (the soldier I mentioned previously), speaks of the vastness of America, the towns with rows and rows of similar houses, the mountain ranges which sprout from the plains of miles and miles of fields and highways. His chatter, incessant and persistent, still rings in my ears as I slip into sleep. While I have very little to say to him, I maintain a polite demeanor, as any man of God is sure to do. But, perhaps it was our trip to Ka Faroshi that spurred my subsequent descent into solitude. It was as to what I described: rows and tents and stalls full of birds, multicolored and elegant, Gabriel’s chattering in constant conflict with the squawks and squeaks of the alleyway. Piles and piles of cages stacked together, some empty, some filled with more than six or seven birds. We made our way through the crowds, and a small child selling finches grabbed my robe - speaking in Persian, I shooed him off. However, the actions of the child spurred Gabriel into motion, he cursed at the child and gripped his rifle in defense. The disruption drew the attention of nearby passers by, and I found myself mortified by his sudden gravitas. I wanted to return home quickly, to forget the events of Ka Faroshi, to be free of the company of Gabriel. Our ensuing outings were necessarily made brief, as I have no desire to attract such attention again. Thus, Gabriel chatters away, and I walk briskly ahead. Accompanied and constrained, stacked into strange hallways, hawked and jeered, I felt a kinship to those birds in cages. 

May the upcoming month pass quickly, and may the sands of the city feel different with familiar faces at our sides.

Always,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If one is curious, I strongly encourage Googling some pictures of Ka Faroshi. What a fascinating little slice of Kabul life, where birds of all shapes and breeds are bought and sold. It is not hard to imagine oneself wandering through the market, taking in the sights and sounds. - St. Malone


	40. Chapter 40

Dearest,

I admit I did, as I always do, have to keep myself from worrying about you with this delay in correspondence, but the memory of that mail strike and other such disruptions to your so-called amenities (which in Rome would be necessities) calmed me, knowing that it was much more likely caused by a tedious inconvenience than a dramatic incident. I am, then, utterly pleased to hear from you, and to know that you are counting the days until your departure as I am to your arrival. I have, much like yourself with your solitude, been keeping busy. The bishops become more and more tedious with each passing day, and the Holy Father is becoming impatient. But I ought not to waste this letter on complaints of my duties here. (We can discuss it in person, while we watch the people pass as we sit at a restaurant, and act like normal men who lead normal lives. Tedium, I suppose, remains the same no matter one’s profession. However most paper pushers and arbiters, I should hope, are not threatened with the wrath of God.)

(Regarding the disruption, though, I must say: I do check the news every so often - it’s difficult not to, in this bustling city - and heard of nothing out of the ordinary in Kabul. I should hope that I would hear quickly of any incident, and in a more personal manner than a disaffected news story sold at the corner store, if anything occurred to any our colleagues, be they in places so distant Afghanistan, or so familiar as Rome. But I digress. Let us not talk of tedium, or of news.)

Again you write of Gabriel. This incident in the market - I wonder, what does it say to me of his nature? He is anxious, and in a cage as well. A child selling birds - this would not be a frightening sight to a man who had no fears. And you - you shoed him off as one might a bird itself, for one does not fear pigeons or finches. But this Gabriel - he knows only to fear them. (I write this all as if I would not have done the same as you - I would have been ashamed as well, if not frightened and disturbed. And what of this child? Did he sink into the shadows in fear or shame, having been chastised by a foreign man in a foreign uniform? Will he grow to resent it? I pray he comes out of this not with fear but with a strong will to do well. I pray for this: no child deserves discomfort). 

But to return to Gabriel. I should hope that having a man of God such as yourself around at least provides him some comfort, and prevents such incidents from occurring again. Perhaps his chattering is a mechanism of his anxiety - for surely a young man away from home, placed in a foreign land with the possibility (or inevitability) of battle is surely anxious - and so, rather than staying silent as you might, he lets loose every thought. Not unlike the birds in the marketplace, I suppose, like a little finch he chirps and chirps as if it might perhaps do him good. Although you say you maintain a _polite demeanor_ , I hope he does not feel scorned by you, as I suppose he might. Yes, even if you think you do not think you are scornful, at least be sure that your expression is not so stony, as I know it can be. Perhaps even a smile, if you dare. Remember, he is farther from home than you. 

I regret that I have few pleasant (or unpleasant) stories to share with you of the men I meet on the street or watch on the subway, or the pleasantries or abnormalities of my day-to-day that might pique your interest, or have stuck with me - but as I write this, one comes to mind. Just after I sent my last letter to you I took some time for myself at the museum. Usually, as you know, I go for walks in the park, but the weather was foul: torrents of rain, apparently a storm demoted from the much more dramatic title hurricane. So rather than take my usual course along the lakes, I found myself at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, not terribly far from the embassy, though in that rain it felt miles, rather than blocks. 

My first instinct, of course, was to linger among the European galleries at the top of the grand staircase there (it is a lovely building) and gaze upon the things familiar to me: paintings of saints, Christ on glimmering backgrounds of gold; portraits of women and husbands, or of musicians, still lives of fruits with the occasional fly, a curling lemon rind, goblets of wine. (These later ones of course are not so common in our galleries, and somewhat of a novelty to me: we have a narrow eye with regards to subject matter.) But one can see saints and even fruit-flies in Rome. Thus I passed through the galleries filled with canvases filled by impressionists (pleasing to the eye, but not moving) and realists (moving, but not pleasing to the eye), and found myself admiring for much longer than I had intended a painting of a young man dressed as a bullfighter - though the background was clearly a background and nothing more, a flat sheet on which he had painted the fighters quelling the horses, the wall of the arena. I did not expect myself to be stunned by this. It is not a terribly beautiful piece, with sharp brushstrokes and none of the perfected gloss of Guido Reni or Raphael (who I have always admired)- but perhaps I was drawn to it by the nostalgia for what was once my home, my trip to Madrid and horror I felt when I saw in passing the arena where they still hold the fights. I was so compelled by this: the artist’s distance from this foreign, even exotic world, and yet fascination with it. I found myself wondering if I, too, found it foreign, enticing somehow more than it had been before, when I saw it for the first time as a young boy. I realized with this that I, like the artist, am an outsider now to Spain: my home is in the Vatican, where there are no bullfights, and scant realist paintings. 

After all this, I was shocked to find that the title was _Mademoiselle V..._ \- that is, the artist’s preferred muse, a young and “wanton” woman as they might have said back then - _in the costume of an Espada_. I see it now, the rosy cheeks, the clear discomfort with which she held the sword: she is no matador, just as I am no longer a Spaniard. This caused me discomfort: I could no longer stare at her, for it was as if I were staring at myself.

I confess: I chanced upon her while I was trying to find my way to the Islamic galleries, which I meant to describe to you in hopes that we might find some common ground there, as if I were at your side. I walked through them slowly, and with awe at the luxurious and splendid works in tile and textile. But as I looked upon these carpets, their oh so intricate patterns, I found myself not lost in the detail, as I was with Mademoiselle V, but thinking only of you. What could I recount to you from these galleries? Nothing, for surely you have better things to say than I. Nevertheless, I did find them beautiful, and hope to return someday, when my mind can be more focused on the splendid art itself and not the man whom it brings to my mind.

Write soon: I hope we can exchange another pair of letters before you run to catch your flight. 

Ever yours,  
Bernardo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The painting the Bernardo finds himself contemplating is of course Edouard Manet's _Portrait of Mademoiselle V in the costume of an Espada_ , one of many portraits he did of his muse, Victorine-Louise Meurent (an artist in her own right, as well). It hangs in one of the grander rooms of the Met's 19th and 20th century galleries, framed with doric columns, and accompanied by other Manets, which deserve mentioning: _Young Lady in 1866_ (Also Victorine), _Boy Carrying a Sword_ , _The Spanish Singer_ , _Young Man in the Costume of a Majo_ , _A Matador_ \- all these later ones showing his fascination with Spanish costume. But only one of his sitters was actually Spanish (the last one). What is it in the Spanish-style Victorine that draws his (and my) attention so much, as opposed to all of these others?
> 
> Another work deserves mentioning, to fill out the monographic survey of French realism: _The Dead Man_. If Bernardo were to take the train down to D.C. and visit the National Gallery, what would he write on seeing this painting, as fine as the rest? - rpblcofletters


	41. Chapter 41

My Beloved Bernardo,

It is interesting, what the significance of the number 21 holds, as I contemplate how many days away I am from taking flight. It is a number that signifies revelation and rebellion, a spoke of the wheel in motion, moving swiftly across the sand. I commiserate with your talk of tedium, where most of my days are a string of endless cigarettes and a flurry of archaic text. Every day is stretched out, laid bare across Sunday afternoon to Sunday afternoon, like the Roman arch of Medinaceli. Sunburnt and ancient.

But, I will not again bore you with talk of sun and sand. Your highly detailed letter did stir a longing within me to see things of ancient curiosity. While the modest Afghanistan National Museum pales in comparison to the splendor of even a sliver of some of the Vatican’s accouterments, the small collection of artifacts did provide an afternoon’s entertainment. Since the museum was only accessible by taxi, I successfully skirted the vigilant chatter of Gabriel and enjoyed a solitary outing. Truly, a miracle that only He himself could have managed - though any outing without a chaperone is not without its dangers.  
I have the inkling that I have forgot to mention in past correspondence that to wear one’s cassock among the civilians of Kabul is strictly forbidden, as Catholic imagery and vestments are gazed upon with disdain in a predominately Islamic country. Within the embassy walls, I am free to wear the typical apparel of any cardinal - but upon venturing out, my cassock is traded for a traditional afghani robe or simple slacks and shirt. Not even a small cross can be visible, thus I cast myself into a dangerous line of sight. While this is a minor annoyance, the mandatory removal of my red stone ring always unsettles me. Nevertheless, it is a necessary precaution.

As the taxi lurches into the entrance gates, the museum is in sight, which stands upon a field of dry grass and fenced in with barbed wire, in view of the former Royal Palace. The palace, a mess of ruins, wire and brick, a constant reminder that war destroys all that was once beautiful. No Rembrandt graces these walls, no saints in dutiful repose, nor familiar benevolence of the Lord Himself. The objects are predominately made of stone and jewel, worn from wind and sand. All traces of Buddhist influence nearly permanently removed, smashed and fractured by religious fervor of decades past. Perhaps what was most striking about the museum was not was it contained, but the empty spaces of what wasn’t left behind. I was informed that many objects were looted in a civil war some years ago, empty spots on the wall with darkened outlines, reminders of the wickedness and brutal tendencies of man. Careful not to outwardly cross myself, I silently thanked the Lord that our dutiful and attentive church has treasured and cherished the artifacts of ancient beauty and splendor. I cannot fathom a world where the Apollo lays, destroyed into dust and shards of marble, where The Pietà crumbles under the fist of unholy enemies. Even to imagine this, I feel waves of nausea wash over me.

Before leaving the museum, the stone Visage of Aï Khanoum caught my eye, a face that lies under tempered glass. His - or her - skull is cracked from age and malice, chips and splinters removed from the cheeks and lips. A blank stare, the life snuffed from him/her, set forever in pieces. While objectively beautiful, the overwhelming sense of great loss bared into my soul like fangs. Overwhelmed, I returned to the embassy, and feel no desire to visit the museum again soon.

I envy the beauty that you can see, my demure and virtuous friend, my dearest confidant. To be gazed upon with tenderness, to be held in elegance and grace, I would gladly be placed upon the wall to be admired by you, and you alone.

With Eternal Adoration,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While not particularly significant in Catholicism (at least, not as much as the numbers 3-7-13, etc.) 21 is is "sinful" number, a representation against what is holy. Of course, the obvious ties to gambling are clear - blackjack, etc. 21 Major Arcana in tarot (not counting 0/The Fool)...21 being The World...not that a Catholic cardinal would be interested in that. But, it was on my mind all the same.


	42. Chapter 42

Dearest Mario,  
It seems I am now the one who has kept you waiting for a letter: the past week has been most hectic for me. Why so suddenly, I do not know: it wasn’t as if my schedule had been any different than the past months that I have spent with the American bishops, hearing their complaints. Indeed, it’s become common that whenever I attempt to achieve something with them, reach some point of finality, they suddenly bring up their woes and air all their grievances. I had finally narrowed the list of potential candidates down to two, but when we were about to strike one so I could continue with my work, I was made aware of the fact that the Bishop of Rockville Center’s car has been having issues with its breaks, and is in need of fixing; that Syracuse’s gardeners are striking; that the roads on Camden’s way to Manhattan are so full of potholes that he arrives completely nauseous, and has needed to acquire motion sickness pills from his doctor. Why they make these issues my responsibility, I do not know: even if I had a direct line to His Holiness at all hours of the day, and if he would listen to me, I doubt he would be able to make the gardeners end their strike, or make the State of New Jersey fix their roads.

You understand, then, the origins of the migraine that kept me occupied the past two days. It developed midday on Saturday, and caused me to leave my office at the embassy early, to try to clear my head with a long stroll and a good night of sleep. It did not work, and yesterday I spent (or allowed myself) a day of rest, as the Lord himself after six days of creation. But I regret that my six days were not nearly as productive as His (though perhaps I ought not to compete - is that not heresy to some, such as the Muslim denizens of Kabul?). It is now Monday morning, and my health has returned to its normal state, though I plan on proceeding slowly. My main activity today, other than going through the mail that had accumulated on my desk (which is where your letter hid itself from me), will be a walk in the park. I am too drained for the beauties of the museum, or the shuffle of one of the avenues. That said, there remains much to be done: I hope to return to everything properly tomorrow.

But I digress: your letter, as I said, was hidden among the pile of envelopes and documents that had been left for me during my single day of rest. It had been delivered a week ago, and was lost among the other letters, instead being delivered to one of Msr. Amatucci’s secretary - and I am most glad that she (a sweet laywoman, who often brings us the baked goods that her sons, curiously, will not eat) delivered it properly to me and not to him, lest I lose your letter to him … a dreadful thought, almost worse than it having been lost properly in the mail ... though you of course wrote nothing compromising. (I need not worry, I know: but still I do).

I deeply enjoyed your description of your museum in Kabul. It seems so foreign, distant: across those desert sands of which you seem to have tired, across the sea that you soon will cross – though I amazed you managed to skirt the attention of your Gabriel. How many days now until you fly from your desert exile? By the time you receive this letter, perhaps less than ten. (Will he miss you when you go, I wonder? Forgive me – you will think I’m mocking. But no, you will not miss him, I am sure). That date remains circled on the calendar in my room, marked on my phone. I suppose you still hesitate to tell me your flight number, or even your time of arrival. How I wish I could be there to meet you at the airport. I pray for you a safe flight, and no issues at the border, or elsewhere. (How will an Italian cardinal traveling from Afghanistan be met? With open arms, I hope. My arms, certainly, will be open.)

But even if you refuse to tell me the details of your arrival, you know where to find me, and I where to find you. We must arrange to meet: else I will be waiting at your hotel beginning the 4th and will not cease badgering the concierge until I see your tall form. Will you be wearing your cardinal’s robes, or maintain those of the desert?

I suppose I will find out soon. Already I can see the shadow of your figure – tall, yes – no longer like a spire, but a minaret.  
Soon, soon.  
Ever your Bernardo


	43. Chapter 43

Cherished Bernardo,

How many days have ticked by, since our correspondence began? The hours flow into day and night, the night into weeks, the weeks to months. Fall is now around us - more you than me, I imagine. Here the wind still rakes across the desert, dry air penetrating every pore, though the blazing sun sets sooner and sooner, stars appear after dinner and the moon hangs lower in the sky. Other than for cigarettes and coffee, I have not left the embassy in days. It is hard to imagine that within a week’s time, I will again be in a strange land. Though, perhaps this time, I will not have strangers beside me.

Now that the hour soon arrives, I apologize dearly for my silence, and hope this letter reaches you before it makes things too terribly difficult, and is not lingering under a pile of workplace ephemera. My flight shall arrive far too late on the 6th, Turkish Airlines TK707 to TK12, and I emerge to you on the Feast of Our Lady of The Rosary as a man of town. I can almost feel a sympathetic buzz with the hum of the city. When deprived of certain things for so long, you begin to rehearse them in your head: actions, glances, motions. What was once so appallingly familiar is now desperately perplexing. And to know it looms near fills me with both fear and eagerness, not unlike learning a new language. And yet, also like waves from a rising tide, I welcome them: let them come, let them come. 

You say that you shall wait outside my hotel, like a dutiful soldier, not unlike the one I leave behind here in Kabul. No, I will not miss Gabriel, not within the least. I will not miss his chatter nor his freckled face, slack from wind and regiment. His duty is by assignment alone, while yours is of loyalty. I imagine you at guard of the gate, like the golden lions at the feet of the Lord, your beautiful wide eyes scanning the crowd. But as you know, I am not easy to miss, a mess of gangly limbs and greying hair. With diffidence, I have packed some fineries that have been tucked in the back of my closet - a gentlemen’s sportcoat in a deep burgundy, far too ostentatious for Kabul. I shall wear that the morning of the 7th, and you may look for me outside the hotel.

If I sound brusque, it is not by design - to rejoin a semblance of personable humanity...I can barely envision. A glass of wine, a meal or two, and I am within your grace, your humbleness, your finesse. 

As I close this letter, I feel that the next few days could last forever and yet I know they will speed by with errant abandon. Our old friend, the mongoose, has returned to me tonight: perhaps to say goodbye? He scurries across the window sill, again in search of crumbs. I follow suit, a languid summer left behind, a desert laid bare, a memory turned to a wish.

Your Beloved Mario


	44. Chapter 44

And finally that morning came, after what had become an eternity of waiting. The final letter arrived only the day before Assente’s scheduled arrival, and Bernardo opened it with more haste than usual. The plane had already taken; he was already in the sky, over that endless desert. And Bernardo pulled up the flight tracker on his phone, intently watching the little icon inch across the screen towards Istanbul.  
He was unable to focus the rest of that day, of course. He could barely sleep that night. Until now the weeks had moved at a reasonable pace towards that circled date on the calendar - but now, as he laid in his bed, atop the blankets, the hours moved with such listlessness that it seemed the world ceased to spin, to make the minutes eternally long, and the seconds creep past slower than the little plane icon on his phone screen, now transversing that endless dark sea. 

But eventually he did doze off - and he was shocked awake by his alarm, set for his regular 6:45. But there was no languishing beneath the covers this morning, as there so often was. No: he rose immediately and swiftly dressed, though with a special care, buttoning each button of his cassock (the finest garment he’d brought with him: even when he went to Macy’s to find something for the occasion, he felt that nothing was fine enough, or appropriate), diligently combing his hair and placing his zucchetto atop it. And when he finished, it was still too early to take a cab to the hotel. So he forced himself to eat something (coffee and a bagel, a most New York meal) though with each bite he felt his chest quavering, and his hands too - and he decided that, rather than eat fruitlessly, he would take a leisurely walk (as leisurely as he could manage) towards the hotel, and hopefully arrive at a reasonable time.

The air was crisp, sky blue and cloudless; the red of the turning leaves particularly bright in the clear light. Early rising tourists were already flocking to see the sites - though they were all of course bewildered to see a cassocked cardinal walking through Central Park at 8:30am on a weekday morning. But he was used to such glances, and he forced to himself to continue walking at a regular, unhurried pace. And soon he found himself standing before that rather menacing, dark facade, the Park Central, resisting the urge to go into the lobby and sit. Indeed, he’d said they would meet *outside* - and so outside he waited. 

Every tall figure immediately caught his eye and made his chest flutter; the same of every crimson coat. He wasn’t sure how long had passed when finally he glanced to his watch - now 10:30. What Assente defined as “morning” was of course tenuous at best, but wasn’t it getting a little late? He forced himself to resist going into the lobby and asking after his dear friend. But then another fifteen minutes dragged by and he found himself approaching the concierge’s desk, hands held before him, and heard the words slipping from his lips - “I’m supposed to meet a friend of mine who’s staying here, could you call his room please?” It was polite, sure, but not as polite as he could have made it. Indeed, he would have revised if he could have, but before he could make any amendments, he heard the young woman before him say “Of course sir, what’s the name?” And he swallowed hard, looking at her kind face, hair pulled back into a tight bun, as a horrible wave of nerves shook through him.  
Perhaps he was silent for too long - it certainly felt so - but she didn’t prompt again, and finally he let the name fall from his lips.  
“A...ssente. Mario Assente.” How long had it been since he said the words out loud? Months, perhaps. But now he would be saying it regularly, at least for the next few days. Mario, Mario. Dear Mario.  
“Oh, yes,” said the concierge - a curious brightness in her tone. “You must be ... Mr. Gutierrez? He’s left a message for you.”


	45. Chapter 45

An alarm screams in the distance, a harsh awakening to a swirl of dreams, hazy in shades of purple and red and blue. Blinking rapidly, Mario brushed a few stray hairs out of his eyes and cleared his throat, which was dry from the desert air. Tendrils of early morning sunlight peeked through the blinds, a reminder of the immediacy of the day ahead. Momentary exhaustion sets in, mixed with reminders of the ritual of preflight necessities. The rushing of cars, a neatly packed bag (everything organized the night prior,) tickets and a crumpled magazine, and sixteen checkpoints of unnecessary small talk between his bed and the final destination: seat C13 on Turkish Airlines. A flick of a lighter and a sigh, birds chirping outside, exhale, exhale. Glasses on, the room becomes clear and sharp. 

Sitting up in bed, his hands shake with a slight tremor. Taking one hand and gripping it with his thumb and forefinger, he holds it steady. Cigarettes, Lord bless them, work quickly to calm the nervous system. Within moments, waves of nausea and a churning belly full of knives submit to the nicotine saturating his lungs, helped along by a swig of wine leftover from last night. The slight tremor subsides, the sunlight streams through the window and splays haphazardly on the floorboards. He opens the olive drab curtains, allowing the morning sun to hit the side of his face.  


Time to go.

The next few hours are a murky maze of taxis, ticket desks, and baggage handlers. Friendly women and robotic men nod in his direction, “ _yes sir, hello sir, good morning sir,_ ” as Assente passes from gate to gate at the 1970s-era airport. Dressed in a modest ensemble, wrists and ankles peeking out of the edges of a linen shirt and crisply-cuffed cotton slacks, his lanky limbs feeling disturbingly naked. Without protection of cassock, cross, and pellegrina, he attempts to blend in seamlessly with the small crowd of diplomats and soldiers at the airport. Sans suit or military fatigues, brown monogrammed Louis Vuitton Keepall Bandoulière bag in hand, he sticks out like a fish out of water. Tourist, he imagines the soldiers sneering. _Silly little rich boy, wandered too far out into our desert and got lost, hm_?

Settling into a faux leather seat at the Turkish Airlines gates, he catches snippets of a number of languages around him - Farsi, English, French, Mandarin. Most conversations are between men in cheap suits, sweating in the early morning sun. A few armed guards pace the walkway, rifles always at the ready. Electronic speakers overhead announce departures and arrivals, a soothing female voice interrupted by the static from a burnt out security intercom. The airport is tiny - laughably so, compared to FCO. Lighting another cigarette, he watches the soldiers and airline workers float by, blurs of drab colors and distant sounds. He catches snippets of a number of languages around him - Farsi, English, French, Mandarin. The seat, which is uncomfortably small for his lithe frame, “leather” edges fraying into shards of twisted plastic thread poke at his sides. Fumbling with his large gold ring, he thought of his small bedroom at the embassy, which will lay vacant until his return. Windows shut tight, door locked, Bernardo’s letters transferred from travel bag to a spot under the middle of the mattress, unable to be seen from prying eyes.  


He contemplated the clandestine nature of the correspondence, a bad habit that cannot be shook off. To make a man wait is torture, to forgive him, divine.  


Twenty hours in flight. It gets him down to the crawl, another few hours of uncomfortable shuffling and waking in and out of sleep. More sunlight streams through the windows, the stewardess offers another glass of wine, thank you sir, a quick inhale of cigarette in the bathroom before anyone notices, another hour of haze, another glass of wine, silent television superhero movie captures the attention a grinning military boy, all red hair and freckled, laughing into the sound of the hum of the airplane engine. Without the steady stream of cigarettes, his nervous tremor creeps up slightly, and Mario grips the side of his hand to make it stop. 

The eternity of clouds finally ends, the fog of travel heavy on his eyelids, glass doorway of LaGuardia Airport opening unceremoniously into the crisp New York evening. The crisp early morning. Whatever. Another maze of sidewalk and taxis, small talk in broken English (both his own and the gruff cab driver,) Park Central Hotel please, forty minutes until his feet hit the ground again, thank you sir, more glass doors and more small talk. He is reminded of the sheer exhaustion of international travel, closing his eyes and reminiscing about wandering from his room in the Vatican to the nearby cafe, a comfortable distance that required no extra chatter or grandiose planning, the way the tourists would clear the path for a man of the cloth, reverent in their actions and deferential gaze. Were those days really so very many months ago? He shivered in his thin linen shirt as he exited the taxi in front of the hotel.  


Opening the door of room 177B, the space was clean and moderately quiet, though the modern decor was thoroughly unpalatable. Cheap plaid carpet and modernist swiss furniture litter the floorplan, sirens and the hum of car engines screech on the street below. Unbuttoning his shirt, now creased with sweat and concealing a few faint drops of cheap white wine on the hem of the cuffs, he stretched his arms fully to the ceiling. His body - a dancer’s body - reveals as languid and smooth against the moonlight. Propping open one of the windows, he lights one more cigarette for the night.

The autumn air on the seventeenth floor comes as a cold shock, an immersion of both giddy excitement and the striking reality of where he presently is. New York City - luminescent and brilliant, standing proudly against the horizon like a concrete spectre. A few stray couples linger on the sidewalk far below, laughter echoing into the night. Lights flicker below and above him, dancing across the neighboring windows, neon signs humming in the distance.  


The knives return to his belly, gripping tightly at his ribs, and a slight smile escapes his lips. My beloved Bernardo, where does your head rest in this endless tangle of buildings? Blotting out the cigarette, he leaves the window open as he falls into bed and collapses into a dreamless sleep.  


♦♦♦♦ 

In the mid-morning, the Park Central lobby is buzzing with activity. Students, tourists, and families flow carelessly in and out of the building, laughing with the excitement and intrigue of a brand new day in a brand new city. Taxis line up outside, loading and unloading the suitcases of weary travellers, talking amongst themselves about sports and traffic reports. A halal stand owner opens the metal window of his food stand on the hotel’s streetcorner, and begins to lay ingredients out on the counter for the incoming lunch crowd. By 10am, the sidewalks flow with a steady stream of people, carrying shopping bags and Starbucks coffee cups. Amongst the bustle of the lobby, a man in a deep crimson coat stands above the chatter of the flowing crowd. Before he exits, the man leaves a hastily scribbled note with the uniformed girl at the front desk.

It reads:

_Beloved Bernardo,  
Will you join me for a cup of coffee at Grand Central Station?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: "Sad Vacation" by the Dandy Warhols.
> 
> I suppose no one really reads these notes, or if you've perhaps gotten this far in the story you're as deranged as I am, so you are reading them. (Thank you.) But here, on the 45th chapter of our memorial to caged birds and clipped wings, I dedicate this to someone who will forever remind me of crowded airports and sad stories, a silly little rich boy who realized his true calling in the waiting area of a Floridian Airport. May God always be in your control. - Saint Malone


	46. Chapter 46

_Grand Central_ he read, eyes so wide that the young concierge couldn’t help but lean forward in curiosity, face brightened by that practiced professionalism. The clergyman standing before her, though, went on staring for a long moment at the sharp letters on the scrap of paper - until finally he looked up, sliding the note off the faux-marble countertop, and said, “Thank you, miss,” a quick smile flashing over his lips. 

She saw that sparkle in his eyes - his gaze, as if this sheet of paper was a relic, that obvious love in his heart; but of course she couldn’t feel the flutter in his chest, or know the thoughts that were rushing through his mind. (Who was this Mario Assente, in whom the priest before her had such interest? She hadn’t seen any other clergymen in the hotel.) But Bernardo slipped away before she could offer him any other help, or ask any questions; she watched as he made his way out of the lobby, dark robes flowing behind him. 

_Of course he would do this,_ he said to himself as he walked through the sliding doors that led back into the street, where cars rushed past and tourists went on unpacking their innumerable bags. _Of course he makes me run after him._ But wasn’t it romantic, too? He brushed his fingers over the slip of paper, now safely in his pocket - a relic, yes, a treasure - and joined the short line of others waiting for a cab. In any other situation, he would have walked, as he had that morning, but that was too much time to waste. He generally was not an inpatient man - but even the simple act of standing behind the southern family before him was becoming unbearable, as the autumn sun bear down against his mozzetta, and one of the younger boys looked at him, in all his episcopal finery, with an odd, unplaceable expression on his face.

He found himself suddenly self-conscious, wondering if he should have worn the shoddy jeans and button down shirt he brought for those occasions when a cassock was inappropriate; if people would look at him, practically in vestments, and his companion, and wonder what a Roman Catholic Cardinal was doing with such a tall, handsome man? Perhaps he would be in his cassock as well - he had written that he didn’t get to wear it out in Kabul, and surely it’s more acceptable in New York. 

Such circling thoughts wound about his head when he finally got into his appointed taxi, the heat of the clearly not air-conditioned car hitting him, causing his nose to wrinkle slightly. He shut the door behind him and forced himself to sink into the ribbed pleather seat, rolled down the window to feel the refreshing breeze from outside, which felt like winter compared to the sultry interior - and only then, after a good minute, did he see the flash of the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, his gruff voice asking, “Where are we going, buddy? The meter’s already on.”

A hot blush boiled into his cheeks and his chest, and he forced the words out, tripping over each syllable: _Grand Central._ He had assumed that the driver had already known - that everyone already knew, that the world was aware of the momentous meeting that was about to occur beneath that muraled ceiling - that a New York taxi driver gave a damn about some oddly dressed foreigner’s love life. But yes: Grand Central. The car jolted forward. (Such a monumental name, for such a monumental occasion. Was this why he was suddenly so nervous? Because he could see soon the sculpted frieze as they drove along a cross-street, because he knew that the man he had waited for for months was within? Because the whole world would be watching when they first saw one another? Yes: it would be grand. He needn’t care what others thought.)

He practically leaped out of the car; insisted the man keep the $12.27 change from his fare - and suddenly he was lost in the coming and going, the bustling of the station, beginning even outside its doors, which opened and closed without end as tourists and schoolchildren and businessmen and members every of profession imaginable streamed to and from the doors of the subways and the trains and rushed towards their office buildings and classrooms and sights to be seen. And he? With slow steps, he floated towards the rows of wooden doors, feeling the cold metal of the brass colored handles against his fingers as he went on, as if in a dream. 

They went on rushing by, driven on by _business_ , but now accompanied by the oos and aahs of those who stared at the ceiling, that wide expanse over their heads, marked with the blue of the heavens and the sea, the delicate gold of the stars - constellations twinkling as the last call was made for the Hudson Line to Poughkeepsie by the squeaky voice of a woman, crackled over by the loudspeaker; the flash of the signs announcing train departures; still people coming and going, coming and going - and he, standing beneath the clock in the center of the station’s main hall, black cape brushed by someone rushing past, settling over his shoulder. He flattened his fascia, and stood completely still, eyes wide, unable to take it all in - even after months of living here, seeing it all as an abstract motion, as if the scene had been filmed improperly and all motions were blurred, made simultaneously infinite and instantaneous. 

And in that blur, what do you seek, dear Bernardo? _When the water laps at your feet, who awaits you on the shore?_ A man, tall and elegant; a lanky, slender column in this sea of constant motion, beneath the stars. But where?


	47. Chapter 47

There is nothing quite like New York City in the morning. An impossibly daunting landscape, every corner bustling with activity and purpose, crowds moving together in unison as if they were guided by a hidden choreographer. A vision of legs, heads, buses, and taxis, adorned with brick buildings and colorful gift shops, flowing in and out of the streets. Stepping outside the hotel doors, Assente reminisced about a night lived long ago, his memories lingering in a crowded bar in Florence. He remembered sitting at an uncomfortable wooden table with an impeccably dressed, well-travelled man from France, who was more than adequately versed in the flutter and bustle of international cities. The topic of New York arose, drunken chit-chat that covered Broadway, drama and performance. The man, drunkenly leaning into Assente’s neck, scoffed and balked: “New York? It is surely not the splendor of Paris, nor the architectural modern wonder of Shanghai, or cultural hubs of Berlin or Amsterdam. A concrete wasteland, a tourist hellhole, an American dream gone awry.”

Standing on the corner of 7th Avenue and West 57th street, Mario momentarily shut his eyes, breathing in the distorted echoes of the man’s words, the concrete wasteland and alleged tourist hellhole. But to Assente, none of these temerarious assumptions made a dent upon that October day. He straightened his jacket, and feeling the crisp, cool air, he wandered up 7th Avenue, distracted by the greenery of Central Park, weaving in and out of pods of tourists. His lengthy frame made navigating crowded streets quite effortless, as he darted past the bike rentals and green awnings, quickening his pace as the trees grew closer. Hot dog vendors, horse-drawn carriages, children in fuzzy animal hats clutching at their mother’s hands, all intrepid travelers in their own regard, coalescing into the park scenery.  
It was difficult not to shiver in the shade of the trees, as the crimson jacket was not adequate protection against the breeze that rippled down 7th Avenue and settled into the entrance of the park. He shuffled his rust-colored leather loafers on the sidewalk, lit a cigarette, his monogrammed golden lighter sparkling in the sunlight, and began the journey to Grand Central Station. Taxi drivers eyed him with anticipation, but what is a trip to an unfamiliar city if not a place to explore the cracks and crevices?

A store window caught his eye, colorful scarves lining the edges, beige mannequins with wooden hands tangling in mudras against each other, showing off designer watches and rings. Fumbling with his own ruby red jewelry, thoughts ebbed through his head like the passing crowds. The morning seemed unreal, incomprehensible – was it not ever twenty-four hours ago that he wandered from his desert compound, a free man who escaped his cage, vestments shed and humanity temporarily restored in shades of burgundy and oxblood. The solitude of summer was not as alienating as expected, pleasantries exchanged amongst American strangers just as they did in Rome, almost to a routine familiarity. And yet, that tugging sense of unease, of a shape that does not quite fit in to its appointed spot, a puzzle piece missing. Catching a sniff of brewing coffee from a café, he began to feel the city’s electricity beneath him, propelling him toward the train station.

From the hotel guidebook, it seemed like a decent enough spot for a meeting an old friend, an even playing field the guards against unfamiliar tendencies. The knives in his stomach grew acute with each step, windows and bricks blurring behind him as his pace quickened. A smile, a softly spoken voice, the intensity of Bernardo’s glance began to sharpen in his memory, the way he would shuffle carefully from room to room, every step deliberate, every tone measured with kindness and brevity. Exhaling smoke and inhaling with anticipation, the crowds seemed to disperse before Mario, parting as the sea did before Moses. Everything in the next few blocks moved with ease, the invisible choreographer of the crowd preparing for a magnum opus, as the chorus of the flock ebbed and swelled through the iron doors and spilled into the great hall of the terminal.

The large room, tall and rectangular, buzzes with electricity. Men in suits dash from one platform’s door to another, loudspeakers blaring with information, nicely dressed women with suitcases in tow, heels clack-clacking on the tile floors. To see Grand Central Terminal with fresh eyes is to gaze upon a frozen moment in the history: a majesty of long-forgotten industry and art deco demeanor, and one can almost imagine the sound of steam locomotives of decades past roaring through the halls. Awe-struck and captivated, the solitude of the desert deafened in his ears, and he leaned against an information booth, collecting himself. It was more crowded here than he anticipated – though perhaps, this was the naïve assumption of a caged bird who now rejoins a wild flock. Gazing heavenward, he noticed the golden modular clock, glowing in the morning sunlight, minutes ticking by. The ever-present silent passage of time, mingling with the buzz and hum of trains was overwhelming. His deep-set eyes wandered upward, past the golden concourse and above the delicate arches of the ceiling, and with his heart racing, his gaze settled upon a brilliant emerald sky painted with shimmering stars.

His fingers wandered unconsciously to the curve of his neck, perhaps as a reminder to straighten his back and shoulders. With a hint of resistance, he reluctantly casted his eyes downward from the sky and across the terminal, pulling his attention back down to earth and the men who dwell within it. A deep, longing sigh, hands in his pockets, fumbling with his monogrammed lighter, his eyes fixed lazily on a figure in the distance. Adjusting the glasses on the tip of his nose, the vision of the man in the distance became unmistakably clear, clothed in cassock and pellegrina, zucchetto perched properly upon his head. As if walking on the autumn breeze, Bernardo seemed to float among the emerald green of the sky and stars of the terminal, his cape trailing briskly behind him like a haze of charcoal smoke. 

He felt the grip of heat in his cheeks, invisible sharpened fingernails clenching around his ribs, knives burrowing deeper and deeper into his stomach. Every unsent letter, drop of spilled wine, loose feather and crumb of uneaten toast threatened to tumble out of his mouth, reckless onto the tile below him. Sensing the unsaid, Bernardo looked upon the man before him with tenderness, and saying nothing, broke into a wide smile. A lifetime upon the golden concourse clock ticked idly by, the endless crowds swarmed and buzzed, a loudspeaker announced another departure. Flustered and giddy, a barely breathing Mario looked him straight in the eyes, his lips readily parting into a gap-toothed smile. 

“Hello, Bernardo.”


	48. Chapter 48

Beloved,  
I write this to you having returned from our picturesque train ride through the Hudson Valley - perhaps as a memento myself so much as a message to you. I suppose it will await you when you return to your exile in the desert, your perch out in that sandy sea: something to welcome you home, after your solitary retreat, your return ride on the Metro North; your long flight home, passing over the infinite ocean, over landscapes desolate and lush; when you return to that poorly-ventilated room that I know you have slowly come to call ‘home’. I write so soon as not to forget: I will make myself a copy when I finish, so that I can cherish it as much as you – so I, as much as you, can look back on it with fondness when I find it with the other letters you sent me, a memoir of our time together these past few days in Manhattan, even when I will have returned back from Rome, and perhaps you from Kabul.

I was unable to breathe as I stood there among the rushing commuters, and finally caught sight of you – your fine figure in that finely-fit suit jacket; I thought I might faint as you came towards me, the details of your face made clearer and more definite as you approached (*to see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion all in one*). Your eyes, a glaze in them: the hint of exhaustion from your trip, even after a night’s rest; the flash of the filtered light against them as I realized you had seen me. Finally the breath poured out of me, and I could not take it in fast enough again. The delicate scent of your cologne (I kept the sample card, now to be stored with this very letter), the fine weave of your coat, the stoop of your shoulders. It took all my effort not to fall at your feet. And worse: I could see the disappointment on your face – a horrid tinge – that I dressed as I had, as a cardinal, rather than an average man (and perhaps I even felt it myself, *nefas*) – that we could not embrace as we might have otherwise, that I could not feel the bones of your shoulder under my embrace, or your long fingers brushing against my hand, your breath against my neck, that delicate cologne on my cheek.

But the city would not have cared: the city never cares. We are but two men in the sea of business suits and ; the crimson of your coat, the trim of my pellegrina, my fascia – these do not particularly distinguish us from the crowd. What did the passers-by see when I brought my hand to yours and lifted it carefully? Did they feel the shiver that ran through me when I felt the weight of your fingers against mine - or notice that, suddenly, as that weight increased, it stopped, and I calmed? Did you? You need not tell me, though I think I know the answer. You felt the calm that came over me: the pure joy, tranquil peace – so long apart, and now, finally, you before me. The vision of St. John in the desert – no, rather, an angel. But this desert was not that of the east, sandy dunes that roll on forever; or of the surface of the sea, infinite waves, the powerful mystery of the deep. No: the city fell from under us, the passers-by were no more, and it was but you and I, that brightness between us, as my hands looked to your hand, and then climbed slowly, slowly to your face, taking in each detail: the buttons of your coat, the fresh shave of your chin, the shimmering whites of your eyes.

So it felt, wherever we were. Riding together in the subway; sitting at a fine restaurant, you with your glass of wine, deep crimson and I with my ginger ale (you laughed at me – a laugh that shamed me then, but now rings in my ears with pleasure); at the ballet that same night. You watched the dancers – and I. I know nothing of dance, though of course I can appreciate a fine figure when I see it. But there is nothing that would compare to the shimmer in your eyes when you watched them leap across the stage – inhuman feats, as the women in their starched tutus were raised above the heads of their handsome princes. Was I jealous? My confessor knows the truth to be yes. I felt a tinge of it in my chest, mixed with the awe at the dancers – but then I moved my hand towards yours, over the felted partition between us, my fingers brushing against yours – and you turned your gaze to me. That same shimmer remained, and now a flutter in my chest (even as I write this), because I saw that the beauty on the stage, in your eyes, was nothing compared to this, what we have between us.

No one could see this, save for me: no one could feel the tremor my hand, save for you. So we were, in the infinite city: no longer exiles in the desert, but a pair. Perhaps glances were cast at us, but never maliciously. Did *they* look at us with jealousy? Two aging men, gazing out the window together as they rode the train along the river, watching the trees with their sunset leaves, hands woven together, buried between them. Perhaps not the epitome, to an American, of an *affaire du coeur*, of a friendship at all. But so it is to us: I could wish for nothing more, than to feel your hand against mine again, for those two hours. And I dread nothing more than the emptiness that I felt as I watched you walk away from the station, to the taxi that would take you to your retreat. Yet there was that lingering feeling, something lingering in the air. Dare I say these few days changed me? That, spending this time with you, I looked at you – and myself – in a different light?

Mi alma, I await the day when we are together again. Where, or when, I do not know – but upon returning from the train station, I found a memorandum on my desk: the bishops had made their choice, and His Holiness had approved it. I am to return to Rome. A poetic ending, is it not? But what will be a return without you there to greet me? Still I will walk the gardens and stand at the beach, looking across the sand and the waves, to you. I console myself with the thought that we will be closer, that our letters will have to travel a shorter distance, but it is not enough. I wish to feel your hand against mine again, the whisper of your breath, the melodic sound of your voice. But perhaps we will not need to exchange letters for so long: perhaps you will be again relieved of your exile, this time permanently – so that again I can feel all those sweet comforts, the delights of your company, the relief of all our hopes.

How I miss you, beloved. How I wish to see you again – this time under the stars of Rome, the dome of St. Peter’s, the angel Gabriel upon Castel Sant’Angelo. There, surely, our glances will need be more furtive, the touch of our hands more slight; the passers-by will be more likely to judge, though we need not worry about tourists. We are cautious, I know: we are always cautious. But I reserve no caution as I write this, and post it to you.

I will see you soon, dear heart: I know it.  
Eternally your Bernardo


	49. Chapter 49

My Beloved Bernardo,

I imagine this will reach you, long after you have departed New York, long after the golden leaves have fallen, perhaps the chill in the air becomes more pronounced, as you pull your winter jacket to your chest. I will cast this letter, aimlessly and into the wind, imagining it hovering between the world of _what was_ and _what is_. Perhaps it is possible that your eyes never glance upon what I am to write, and this correspondence sits, unread, at the bottom of a pile of leaflets and forgotten gifts, gathering dust in a post office in New York. Perhaps I am whispering into the darkness, the space between you and I, again the length of an ocean and sky. To imagine that this letter does indeed reach your tender hands, among the shuffle and international shifts, perhaps caution is dutifully warranted. May my words be spoken only to your ears, may my sentiments be seen by your eyes alone.

As we exited our train, dizzy from the speed and scenery, unhooking our entwined hands and saying farewell, I had no doubt that the following week would pale in comparison to your company. Could one truly scan your city ( _former city_ , now) from the seventeenth floor, amongst the music and voices, from the crowds and cars, and gleefully accept yet another extended silence? I have become used to the beloved things in my life being dangled in front of my eyes and snatched away, and I have come to relish the stillness and the shadows left behind.  
As I arrived at the retreat, idling within an overgrown house in the countryside, American men with big smiles and extremely white teeth welcomed and fawned on my arrival. A grey-haired gentleman stooped over from age showed me around a lackluster garden, a jolly monk in shabby robes handed me a stack of books to review over tea. It was all very docile, professional, and serene. Of course, there were moments of marked tension, like the ebbing water in a bamboo fountain that occasionally spills over to the gravel below. The men whisper, as they do. Who is this Italian cardinal, sentenced to life in some foreign desert? A few men dare flash me a knowing smile, and I stiffly turn away: I am not serving their sentence, nor they, mine. As in His eyes, we all pay our penance. Their stories upon the tip of every tongue, the whispers in every glare – we are all men of misdeeds. I have not the adequate language nor intention to reveal myself, so I spent much of the time in my room or in the small chapel. And, as older men do, they respected my silence. 

But, I assure you my dearest, my silence did not betray me. When I shut my eyes and remained in prayer, your presence filled my soul. In the quiet nights of the tranquil countryside, I remained vigilant, I remained cautious and controlled, because how could I ever convey to them what I felt mere days before? To see you, like an illuminated angel sent from the Lord himself, among the emerald green sky and stars of the train station…there were all the moments prior to your arrival, and there was the entire universe after it. A taxi, a ballet, a sigh.  
My devotion is to Him and Him alone, but my words to you. Beloved, beloved Bernardo, we remained cautious, as we always do. And yet, the night of _La Sylphide_ , I fear the flutter of my chest made my teeth audibly chatter. You move so slowly, so elegantly, and yet on the seventeenth floor, you and your city devoured me whole. No matter what you tell your confessor, I can still feel the remnants of your delicate hands and your intricate jealousy, deep within me, under the neon lights of the hotel window. These sensations will linger, from the noisy streets of New York and back to my room in the Italian embassy, until I may someday see you again. The breath from your whispers echo in my ears as I write this, back “home” at the embassy, back among the sand.

The funny thing about solitude is that it is deafening – I hear the wind howl outside the embassy walls, I hear the men shuffling to and from their responsibilities, I hear the rattle of a broken window pane rustle against my curtains. After a day – two days? In flight, the liminal space between you, and I, and time itself – I return here to Kabul, exhausted and unfulfilled, once again to serve out the duration of my sentence. Glass of wine in hand, a full pack of cigarettes on my desk – I can’t entirely dismiss the allure of a duty-free carton of cigarettes from the Turkish Airport – I pen this letter to you. Perhaps I have waited too long to succumb to the strange comfort this desert brings, perhaps I have resisted letting it lull me to sleep with its poppy fields, its soldiers and sands. When the sun sets over the mountains, when the sky is lit purple and gold and night begins to fall, I feel a twinge of alleviation. 

Before I close this correspondence to you (if you even happen to receive it,) I could not help but notice that upon the day of my return, the latch of the window of my room was open and a broken plate lay at my feet, week-old crumbs scattered about the room, tobacco from a half-broken cigarette strewn across the desk. One of the nuns let me know that she heard some scurrying behind the door and was too afraid to examine the commotion, fearing that it was a mouse or rat. I scolded her for her ineptitude, locking the door behind me. Of course, I knew it was the mongoose – undoubtedly collecting sustenance for whatever the winter months will bring. I left him a small cracker tonight, a token of my reluctant acceptance of his presence.

Yours as Always, as Forever,  
Mario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I know no one is reading these notes, so perhaps like Assente's letter above, I can proceed with an intimate honesty that would not be present otherwise. We are familiar with each other now, dear reader? Feel free to call upon me anytime, my door is always open.
> 
> This truly was an elegy to the world's worst summer, which has now spilled into fall and threatens to encroach on winter. And yet, I know I will look back on this fic with affection - it says what I never could, it dreams in a direction I cannot visit. Covered in Stars and drunk in a foreign city, The Weeknd's "Kiss Land" on repeat - someday, someday, someday. 
> 
> To be annexed from the things you love most is slow torture, but to mingle with what is left behind is a lesson that most could stand to learn. However, I am terribly naive, and I fear you may be as well, my dear reader. But I say this with affection, as we will explore the empty spaces together.
> 
> \- Saint Malone


End file.
